The Road Home
by Spike's Willing Slave
Summary: Sequel to 'What's Good for the Soul'. AU S7. WIP. Has OC protagonist, so keep an open mind.
1. Tied

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Archive: If you like. Just tell me where.

Acknowledgements: Eternal thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me literate and allows me to indulge in some girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It's OC, so deal with it or bail now. J 

Timeline: Selfless

Email: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

If you would like to be notified when new chapters are posted, please sign up at: 

~+~

He had come to fear the dark.

Spike sat, back pressed deep into a far corner of the new Sunnydale High basement, staring into the blackness around him. Knees drawn to his chest, body scrunched as small as he could make it, he tried to melt into the freshly-cured concrete wall, to become invisible, to hide. Surely, The Other wouldn't find him - this time. 

The Other. The thing that stalked and tormented him every hour of every day since… how long had it been, since his return? Weeks for sure. Months, maybe? Not that it mattered. A day, a week, or a month - torment was torment and he was reaching his breaking point. Fast. 

He snickered at that. _Breaking point._ He'd careened over that a long time ago. The best he could hope for now was bits of lucidity, some clarity of mind for when she'd come to him, seek him out and ask for his help. His glowing prize. His darling. His judge. His Slayer. She was his all, now. He had nothing left. The Other - and the fright it instilled - had drained him of everything else, leaving him a hollow shell, a ghost of what he'd started to become. Spike. The Big Bad. Vampire of the Line of Aurelius, slayer of Slayers, survivor of apocalypses and all-consuming love, reduced to a cellar rat, cowering from things that rattled in the dark, fearing the realm that should have been his demon's playground.

Nothing of him left. Nothing worthwhile, at least.

__

Not quite true. 

There was always the soul, his ethereal self, for which he'd fought to be restored. For her. For Buffy. _It_ was meant to be his gift to her, an offering to demonstrate his love and humanity, to make him be someone worthy of her. He still had _It_, sullen and fractured as _It_ was, picking at him from the inside, with guilt and self-loathing. _It_ had reason to hate him. _It_ didn't want to be here. _It_ hadn't chosen this. _It_ hadn't wanted to be gifted to someone _It_ didn't love, to someone who didn't care for _It_ or _Its_ existence. This wasn't home. This wasn't peace. _Its_ counterpart was responsible for _Its_ suffering. The demon had crushed _Its_ haven in its jaws and there was no going back.

His eyes started to burn, his vision blurring as they began to water. He resisted the urge to blink, unwilling to take his attention off the shadows, which might allow The Other the chance to pounce. He rocked gently on his heels, the rhythm taking his mind off the discomfort, letting him focus on the task at hand. Be alert. Be safe. Get through the night.

A rustling came from the shadows. Spike snapped to attention, seeking the source of the sound. It wasn't The Other. The Other made no noise, but simply appeared. This was something else. He sniffed the air, then crept forward, on hands and knees, into the darkness. A rat. He hadn't seen - or smelled - one in days. The Other had driven most of them away, taking glee in finding yet another way to cause Spike misery. Hunger gnawed at his gut as he slunk towards his prey. Stacks of freshly milled wood and sacks of concrete were scattered throughout the basement, sharing space with boxes of books, desks and other needs for the resurrected Sunnydale High School. Rounding a pile of discarded packing crates, he located his target. Slowly, he inched his way closer. He could almost taste the animal's sour blood… just two more steps and…

"SPARKY!"

Spike gasped as The Other snapped into being, the rat forgotten even as he listened to it scuttle away. Spike retreated into the nest of boxes, guarding his back as he forced himself to look up at his tormentor. 'Warren' again. 

'Warren' smirked at the vampire huddled at his feet.

"What is it with you and rats, man? It's just… _ew_, you know? Gross. Can't understand why you're sucking on the squeakers when there's tastier meat outside… and in the girls' locker room."

"Not real," Spike muttered, willing some anger into his bloodshot eyes. "Not here."

"Aw, I'm hurt, man. And, real enough, too, so show some respect." 'Warren' shot a fist out at Spike, laughing as the vampire flinched at the phantom blow. 

"Gotcha!" he cackled. His twisted smile reverted to a frown as Spike collected himself. "But, seriously, the rat diet's gotta stop. I can't have my best toy chowing down on fucking vermin. You need your strength, dude. You're no good to me weak. Well, _weaker_ at least. Wouldn't do if you started bucking the training too much."

Spike tried to sink further into the stack of crates, wincing as a loose board jammed his shoulder. 'Warren' _tsked_ and knelt next to him. 

"I know what you're thinking. No money for blood, too soft on the felines to go hunting for them, so the rats will do. But, I'm trying to tell ya, there's a world of flesh out there just waiting for you. Okay, so you're still all 'chips ahoy' in the brain pan, but, Spikey… _I can help you with that_."

"S… Sod off," Spike whispered, trying his best to attempt a glare.

"Well! A backbone! Good for you! I thought the Slayer had that in her panty drawer, along with your balls. No, wait, the _other one_ holds the ticket on those."

Spike eyed the apparition warily. 'Warren's' smirk returned. "What? Don't you think I know about her? The little girl you Ma Bell-ed, all weepy and scared, begging her to come for you? You know, when you're asleep, getting all twitchy with the dreams and the guilt, it's not that bitch Buffy you call out for."

"Isobelle," Spike breathed. 'Warren' nodded. "She must've been something else, to be taking the Slayer's place in your dreams. What was it about her made her so special? She a really good fuck, or what?"

"She… she was… nice to me." 

The misery of Africa, the soul and his outcast state had found mitigation over the summer, when a chance encounter with Isobelle Jones had given him the chance to see what life could be like when one led with an open hand instead of a fist. Spike had found a safe haven in her home, her friendship and, later, her heart. For the first time since William had become part of his past, Spike had experienced passion, based on tenderness and desire rather than strength and dominance. She had given of her home, of herself and her life without expecting something in return. At last, he'd been on the receiving end of another's affection and regard, with no demands for reciprocation of anything more than respect.

It had been so easy to fall in love with her.

'Warren' stood up, hovering over Spike. "How screwed up is your unlife? You get your soul back - pain, pain, torment, torment, the usual shit - and _It_ goes and gets all drippy over the wrong girl! Now - stupid vamp trash that you are - you managed to screw up that sweet situation by nearly sucking dry the first person who didn't want you dead - well, _deader_ - at first sight. Not a wise move. So, you come back here - run into ME - and start to dodder and drool over the Slayer, who - it seems - doesn't give two hoots about you, your soul, or your pain." 'Warren' chuckled. "And people thought _I_ had problems with women."

"Fuck off," Spike muttered. 

'Warren' sighed. "Face it, boy. No one is coming to help you. No one ever will. I'm all you got. The sooner you realize that, the easier things will be, I promise."

"Sh… she loves m… me. She loves me."

"And look what it got her. Wonder what _her_ scars look like?"

Spike didn't respond. 'Warren' shrugged. "Fine. The hard way it is. Just means more fun for me." He turned on his heel and walked away, feet falling with eerie silence on the concrete floor.

"Oh, Spike, by the way," he called, over his shoulder, "Remember, you love something, you've got something to lose. You better hope that sweet little girl of yours isn't looking for you. You may think she loves you, but I _know_ who _you_ love, and, she ain't the only one. You got twice the stuff to lose, my friend. Think about that, before you hurt them both. Because, I promise, you _will_ hurt them. I'll see to it."

Spike shivered as 'Warren' dissolved into the darkness. The Other was gone.

He sat, still wedged within the cobble of crates, trying to erase The Other's words from his mind. 

Buffy.

Isobelle.

He couldn't hurt them again. He hugged his knees to his chest, hiding his face in the hollow, and prayed.

"Don't come for me… don't come for me… don't… " A sob hitched his voice. "Don't come… for … me… "

~+~

Sunrise. 

Unbelievably warm reddish-gold rays of light shone through the gaps in the hotel room curtains, falling across the bed in jagged lines, highlighting the imperfections that years of wear and tear had inflicted on the cotton coverlet. Isobelle Jones frowned. On the surface, the hotel seemed nice, almost posh; at least it had when she'd arrived from the airport a few hours ago. Brass and marble in the reception area, rich wood and wool carpeting throughout the halls and in her room, plush furnishings and polite staff; that made it all the more disconcerting, seeing the shoddiness of the linen under which she'd slept.

Pushing the coverlet to the floor, she rose and went to the shower. She inspected the towels before stripping down, satisfied they looked passable for use. She stood under the hot jets of water, hoping the spray would pound some of the tension out of her tired body. Ten hours on a plane and her late-night check-in had taken their toll; each muscle felt riddled with knots that twitched and ached with every move. But, the pain in her body was the least of her concerns. Why she was here, in the small coastal burg of Sunnydale, California, was at the forefront of her consciousness.

Spike.

Five months ago, her world had been so simple. She'd been just another junior MD, looking to survive residency and stay in the good graces of her supervisors. It was on her last nightshift, in a backwater ER, that she'd met him. 

Nothing had been the same since.

Her worldview had been altered. She'd learned that things really _did_ go bump in the night. Monsters _did_ exist and vampires were real.

More than real. They were undead entities, with no heartbeat, no body heat and no need to breathe. But hers - she grimaced; even now, she still thought of him as _her_ vampire - he lived. Fully. He was sentient, sensitive, stubborn and sweet. She'd watched - and felt - his suffering, his despair and later, his contentment. He'd cried, he'd laughed, teased and comforted. The coolness of his flesh had belied the warmth in his actual touch, his smile, and his eyes.

__

I see a man…

She remembered saying that to him, during one of his darker moments. It was something she'd wanted him to believe, because it was how she'd started to see him. She knew there was a demon lurking inside. She'd met it more than once and, thinking the man was now stronger than the monster within, she'd allowed it to get too close. And it had ruined them both.

She stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Wiping condensation off the mirror with the heel of her palm, she groaned at the reflection cast back at her. She'd hardly slept since he'd left, almost two months ago. Then, last week, there had been the call. He'd sounded desperate, fearful, begging her for help and babbling apologies for what he'd done.

She tilted her head to the side and examined the pale expanse of flesh on the left side of her neck. She had to squint to make out the scars: two silvery puncture marks joined by twin crescents, the remnants of his bite, her reward for reaching out to his demon, for wanting to accept him. 

All of him.

She ran her fingers over the slick tissue. It felt - odd. Not painful, but - sensitive. Whenever she touched it, it was like his hands were on her, stroking her skin. She could feel his arms, holding her close. Sometimes, the scar would burn, making her flush and tingle. His mark. His brand, rent into her flesh, binding her to someone - some_thing_, she thought sadly - that she probably would never get to have. She stared at it and caressed it again. His hands, again. She trembled slightly, savouring the sensation, then pulled her fingers away. That wasn't why she was here. He'd asked for help. She'd given it before and she was willing to do so again. Things were unfinished between them and hopefully, in the course of helping him, she would find resolution, some closure of her own, to whatever it was she'd allowed to develop between them over the summer.

A lump formed in the pit of her stomach at the thought. Closure. Resolution. That was the way it had to be. Instead of staying, facing what he'd done, he'd left. She'd woken up weak, sick and alone, which, she'd discovered, had hurt her far worse than the realization that he'd seemingly lost control and had come close to…

__

Enough, she chastised. Pulling a brush through her still-wet hair, she smoothed out the worst of the knots in the wavy curls and went to get dressed. She had one clue, one piece of real information, linking her to where he was, or more precisely, where he'd been when he'd called her. A phone number and an address, scrawled on a scrap of paper, securely tucked away in her wallet. She had to remind herself it was a start. 

She'd find him. 

She had to.

~+~

It had to be neat. It had to be tidy. A place for everything and everything in its place. He was where he was supposed to be - in the basement, with the bugs, the vermin and The Other. This was where he belonged and here he would stay. But sometimes, she would come here, down into the dark, to find him, search him out and ask for his help. And he would - he was happy to. He owed her nothing less than his penance, his servitude. She was due things from him and he would oblige her every need. Her Willing Slave. He'd meant that. Now, he was living it. All for her. 

He looked sadly upon the packing crates before him. He'd collected what he could find and brought them to one end of the storage area. They were arranged kitty-corner, facing the fencing, his attempt at making a seating area for her, if she visited again. Someone had removed the rest of the office chairs yesterday, leaving him with only the rough wooden boxes and cinderblocks to work with. 

"Won't do," he muttered, whipping a hand through his greasy curls. "Won't do at all. Not right. Better… needs to be better." He cast a wild eye to his surroundings before trotting down one of the dimly lit hallways. His footfalls echoed in the gloom and it made him feel secure. He made noise. That meant he was real. He existed. The days were always better when he could convince himself of that. He was flesh and bone and blood and soul… not that he could feel the soul like that. At least when he smashed his fist into the meat of his thigh, it bruised. That was real. Or pounded on the cinderblock walls until his fingers cracked and twisted. That was real. 

The soul, he couldn't touch. _It_ wouldn't sing to him now, only coming to the fore when he was in pain. _It_ took dark satisfaction in Spike's misery. _It_ wouldn't nurse him after the torments of The Other, nor give him pride when he'd helped his Slayer. As battered and bruised as _Its _vessel, the soul had curled in upon itself, denying Spike his awareness of _It_ unless _It_ needed to lash out, to hurt him. 

__

It remembered why _It_ was sought out, had seen to whom _It_ was meant to be gifted. _It_ remained silent and sullen in the face of _Its_ duty: to be for her, for the Slayer. _It_ refused to capitulate to that destiny. Spike had been taught once that _It_ was not to be denied _Its_ wants. He would learn that lesson again. It was only a matter of time before _It_ would bend Spike back to _Its_ will and fulfill _Its_ needs.

"Nothing," Spike moaned, rifling through another pile of discarded crates and boxes. "Got to be something… need to find something… "

"There you are."

Spike flung himself around, panic on his face.

"Hey, relax. It's only me."

A wavering smile grew on his face. "Buffy."

"Hi."

She stood a short distance away, hands toying with the hem of her white blouse.

"You… you look very pretty today," he managed. 

"Thank you. Spike? What are you doing?"

"Nothing! I'm… I'm being good, I promise."

"I know that. And, you are - being good. I meant, what are you _doing_, you know, with the boxes and the junk and all…"

"Just looking. I was…" He hesitated. The smile faded from his face. "Is something wrong? Do you… need… me?"

"What? Oh, no. Things are fine - for a place that's all evil and Hellmouth-y."

"Buffy… then, why… why are you here?"

"I… I wanted to see you. To talk to you."

"About?"

It was her turn to smile. Her soft lips curved at the corners and her green eyes sparkled in the faint light.

"You."

"Me?"

"No, the other you! Yes you. I'm worried about you. I… I want to help you."

Spike took a cautious step forward. Buffy held her place, not flinching at his approach.

"Why?" he asked, trying to keep his joy in check. She was here, for _him_. His Slayer.

Her smile broadened

"Because… I care about you. After everything you've done for us… for me… I want to show you my gratitude and how…" She cast her eyes to the floor briefly, as if collecting her thoughts. "You are important to me and I want to help you. You've earned it, Spike. Its what you deserve."

~+~

"This can't be right…"

__

Welcome to Sunnydale High School.

Checking the address for the third time, Isobelle scanned the crumpled bit of paper in her hand. She hadn't expected this. Since the night of his call, her imagination had been working overtime, conjuring strange and pathetically sad scenarios regarding where and how she would ultimately find him. Noir-ish images of seedy bars, dank alleys, or grungy motels were always the backdrop, with Spike being even more wretched and broken than when they'd first met. In her mind, it was all about him. Finding him. Helping him. Resolution. Setting him back on his feet - again - so that both could walk their separate paths, on equal ground. 

She squinted against the blinding sunlight and surveyed her surroundings. Flagstones were under her feet, not the greasy cobbles of a back alley, serving as courtyard to the gleaming white concrete building before her. Fresh air and the laughing chatter of students filled her ears, not the tinny music and clanking glasses of some rank watering hole. 

Shoving the address into the pocket of her jeans, she lowered herself onto one of the benches scattered around the campus, buried her face in her hands and rubbed her tired eyes. It had been too easy. Tracking the call, finding the address and coming here to Sunnydale… small steps, easily taken, on what was turning out to be a monumental quest. Second thoughts had never been entertained, until now, faced with her first real obstacle. Why the hell did she ever think she'd be able to track him down? She was reconciled to her purpose, but was it worth it? If, by some chance, they found one another again, would it be easy to say goodbye?

Sighing, she raised her head and looked at the school. 

Obstacle. 

Run? 

Or overcome?

"Ow…" she mumbled, hand flying to her throat. She loosened the silk wisp of her scarf, exposing the scar. It had started to hurt - not badly, but the feeling was definitely unpleasant: like tiny, fiery sparks prickling over her skin. She massaged her neck, trying to soothe away the sensation, and winced. Touching made it worse. It was nothing like the warm, luxurious tingle of this morning; this time, it ached, evoking a malevolent melancholy that pooled in her belly and made her long for home.

This couldn't be right. She had to leave, regroup and rethink her plan. It had been foolishness, thinking her tragic little rescue fantasies would ever come to pass; a mistake of monumental proportions to have come here at all. 

Rising from the bench, she turned her back on the school. Her shoes clacked on the flagstones, the ache in her neck abating a bit more with each step she took. As she approached the campus boundaries, it had faded to a dull throb. She paused and looked once more at the gleaming Sunnydale High. She ran her fingers over the scar, testing the sensitive skin. She swayed slightly as her nerves fired, bringing back a bit of the sting. She took one cautious step forward, then another. Her whole body hummed as she moved towards the school again, the biting heat of his mark eventually melting away to merge with - what, exactly? An emptiness; a feeling of almost panicked yearning, that made her buzz with agitation.

Students milled in the courtyard and crowded the entrance. She wove her way amongst the chatting cliques and eventually reached the main doors.

__

Obstacle. 

Run? 

Or overcome?

Rightly or wrongly, she'd been led here. Coming this far, she owed it to herself to see it through. She had to try, or she'd never be able to let it go.

She pulled the door open and slipped inside.

__

Here we go…

TBC…

~+~


	2. Found

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Archive: If you like. Just tell me where.

Acknowledgements: Eternal thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me literate and allows me to indulge in some girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It is OC, so deal with it or bail now. J 

Timeline: Selfless 

Email: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

If you would like to be notified when new chapters are posted, please sign up at: 

A/N: {taps neon sign that says 'Girly Selfishness Ahead'} Considering the timeline folks, this is rather drippy in spots. But my beloved Kristen likes the sap, so I left it as is.

~+~

It was happening again.

Buffy sat at her desk, head bowed over the file that was scattered on the blotter, trying to ignore it. The noise. Low, keening whispers. Sad, soft sounds that drifted through the air ducts, up from the basement, and swirled into every lonely corner of Sunnydale High. Stories were already spreading about what it could be: restless spirits of the former Sunnydale High's dearly - and violently - departed; the soul of a missing construction worker supposedly sealed within one of the concrete pilasters… 

Or a lonely, raving lunatic, rumoured to creep through the corridors at night, frightening the custodial staff with his echoed mutterings and flitting, shadowy presence.

She flinched, sensing a laugh buried within the soft jabbering. She gritted her teeth, flipping the pages of the file with a vicious _snap_ of her wrist.

__

Not gonna let it get to me… not today…

The stories, she could deal with. This was Sunnydale High. With the Hellmouth below and evil weirdness permeating the atmosphere, coating everything with a slick skin of malevolence, stories, concocted to explain the unexplainable, myth, forged and repeated like a mantra to make sense of the irrational, were a given. More than a given, they were a necessity - a way to survive, to explain away the oddness she and the others lived, and overcame, every day of their lives. What she couldn't take was the reality of it all - _knowing_ the source of the melancholy ravings her coworkers cringed over, or the students giggled - or more often shivered - about. She could try to block it out, pretend that it wasn't there - that _he_ wasn't there - and that her life was taking on a touch of normalcy. Finally, she had a regular job, like a regular girl. She had her own neat little desk, complete with paperclips, pens and stapler. 

She smoothed out the file, moving her pencil cup closer to her Rolodex. Her things. Her corner of the ordinary. That he had invaded it - was _haunting_ it - with his own fractured presence, ruined this cherished, unremarkable facet of her life.

Another faint laugh. Or, was it a sob?

It wasn't stopping. She twisted around and slammed the vent closed, drawing stares from the others in her office space. She knew they could hear it, too, but up until that moment, had been doing a better job of letting it fade into background than her; just another quirk of Sunnydale High that they had to live with. With an embarrassed glower, she pushed away from the desk and strode out into the hallway. She'd gag him if she had to; there was no way in hell she would let him piss on her little slice of normal. 

She yanked at the hem of her black tunic as she stalked down the corridors. Blurry, student-shaped objects ducked and darted out of her way as she made a beeline for the basement door. Oblivious to everything around her except the staccato of her heels on the linoleum and the 'Access Denied' sign that had come into sight, she nearly knocked over someone not smart enough to jump out of her way.

'Sorry,' she muttered, tossing the apology over her shoulder and not stopping to see with whom she'd collided. She had only one thing on her mind: Spike. Shut him up and get him out of the building - or, make him dusty, trying.

~+~

Isobelle rubbed her smarting shoulder and watched the petite blonde girl continue down the hall.

"No, I'm fine," she called out half-heartedly. "Thanks for asking."

She leaned against the wall, out of the way of the milling mass of students, taking in her surroundings. Now, inside the building, it seemed less than probable Spike would be here. But, this was where her small slip of information had led her: the phone number, the address - this was the place. He'd been here, so this was where she needed to start her search.

The ache in her shoulder faded, but the one in her neck remained. That was the other oddity; the faint, silvery scar that tracked the left side of her neck had started to tingle the closer she'd gotten to the school's main doors. What had started as small sparks of pain had grown into a deep, disconcerting throb. She re-fastened the silk scarf around her neck, wincing as the wispy fabric grated over the bite. His mark. Her last remnant of him, carved into her flesh, flaring in response to - something. Here.

"Need some help?"

She jumped at the voice and turned, fixing wide, blue eyes on the man who'd suddenly appeared beside her.

"Hey, sorry! Didn't mean to scare you," he said, giving her a wide smile. Tall, dark-haired and rather ordinary-looking, he shifted the load of books he had in his arms. "You just look a little… lost."

Isobelle took a step back and made an effort to return his grin. "Well, you wouldn't be wrong,' she replied. She fished a scrap of paper out of her pocket, smoothing out the wrinkles to make the phone number visible. "I'm trying to find the person at this number… I don't suppose you…"

He craned his neck over his armload of books and peered at the scrawled digits. "Oh, yeah, that's Miss Summers' number. Buffy Summers. She's one of the counselors here."

Isobelle blinked. _That was too easy._

"Really? Great. Uh… where would I find her office?"

"Down the hall, third door on the left. No, I mean right. On the right."

"Thanks." She turned to follow his directions only to be stopped as he spoke again.

"Oh, but she's not there."

Her shoulders slumped. "What?"

"She's not in her office." He gestured down the opposite end of the hall. "She went that way just two seconds ago. Just… through that door there."

She looked and tried not to sigh in frustration. "You meant through the door that says 'No Admittance'?"

"Yeah. It just goes to the basement. No big if you want to go after her. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

She glanced again at the door and weighed her options. 

"I suppose I could wait for her…" 

A fresh twinge of pain sparked in her neck. 

__

That cinched it. 

Clutching her bag more tightly on her shoulder, she walked towards the basement door.

"Thanks, again…"

"Warren," he offered, smiling again. "And - no prob. My pleasure."

~+~

'Warren' watched the dark-haired woman slip through the basement door. 

"_Gotta like these little surprises,_" he mused, as he faded into nothingness, completely unnoticed, amidst the student throng. "_Makes things a whole lot more interesting._"

~+~

It didn't take Buffy long to find him. It never did. No matter how shifting and labyrinth-like the basement seemed, she could always find him easily, his disjointed spirit almost a beacon of misery, slicing through the gloom that permeated the Hellmouth's lair, drawing her in. She tried not to grouse when she saw him, or let her distaste show on her face. Spike was huddled in a corner of one of the storage areas, back pressed against a strip of chain link fencing. He was a mess: his clothes rumpled and dusty, his hair a mass of tangled, bleached curls. Broken packing crates were scattered around him; he was facing one, mumbling, seemingly deep in conversation… but there was no-one else in sight. 

She watched for a moment. 

__

He seems so calm; just like before, when he came to the house… before what happened in the church…

He gave a small sigh and self-consciously tucked a hand behind his head.

__

God, is he crying?

A hard frown settled upon her face as she stepped forward to get his attention.

"Spike?" 

~+~

"Well, this was a smart move," Isobelle muttered, picking her way through the dimly lit basement. "You come to a strange town, wind up at the local high school and end up wandering around in the dark, looking for a lost vampire. Oh, and now you're talking to yourself. Fabulous."

She needed that noise - needed to hear her own voice bounce off the concrete walls, as she crept deeper into the dank emptiness that surrounded her. The sounds of her false humour and bravado echoed back to her as she progressed down the corridor, quelling some of the dread that had set in her belly. The ache her neck had settled, too. Now a steady, prickling burn, it was irritating, but not uncomfortable.

"Oh, lovely," she moaned, coming to an abrupt halt. She'd reached a fork in the corridor. She gnawed her lip in frustration, wondering which path to follow. Both seemed to stretch forever, details of where they led blurred in the dwindling overhead lights. Which way? Left or right? 

__

Decide.

Make a choice.

"Dammit!" she blurted, tears forming behind her tired eyes. She didn't know which way to turn. She had come this far and a simple choice - left or right - had her confounded. Helpless. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling, trying to pull herself together.

Then she heard them.

Thin, tenuous sounds drifting up from the path on her left.

__

Voices.

~+~

Buffy hovered over Spike, her expression dark in the face of his own surprise.

"This basement is killing you," she intoned. "This is the Hellmouth. There is something bad down here, possibly everything bad."

Spike laughed bitterly, shaking his head at her words. 

"Can't hear you, can't hear you…" he babbled, ducking away from her hard glare.

Losing her patience, she nearly spit the words at him. 

"You have a soul? Fine. Show me!"

~+~

"Definitely voices," Isobelle muttered, walking with renewed confidence down the concrete hall, towards the sounds trickling from the dark - but, now, not so dark; light bloomed from the end of the corridor. She edged her way closer, pausing near the entryway to what appeared to be a large storage area. Hugging the corner, she tried to make out what the voices were saying. 

"You have a soul? Fine. Show me!"

A woman's voice. Harsh. Annoyed. Isobelle slipped around the corner and saw the tiny blonde who had run into her upstairs.

And, on the floor, at her feet, curled in upon himself, was Spike.

"Get up and get out of this basement!"

Spike stared down dejectedly. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

Isobelle stepped from the shadows.

"Yes. You do."

~+~

Buffy turned quickly on her heel, staring in surprise at the stranger before her. 

"What? Who… _who_ are _you_? And what are you doing here?"

"I'm… a friend. And I came looking for him," Isobelle replied, trying to slip past the angry blonde.

"He doesn't have friends," Buffy retorted, grabbing Isobelle's wrist, stopping her cold. "He has victims. And you didn't answer my question."

"Don't hurt her, Buffy," Spike whined, watching from his station on the floor.

"For God's sake," Buffy sighed. "Alright. Now you know _my_ name. Yours?"

"Isobelle," the brunette intoned, fixing a dark stare on Buffy. "And like I said, I'm a friend. Of Spike's. Now, let go of my arm."

Buffy loosened her grip, still wary of the stranger before her. "A friend? How, exactly, are you friends with…"

"Long story," Isobelle interrupted. "And now's not the time or the place. I heard what you said. You want him out of here? I want _to get_ him out of here. Let's do that and _then_ worry about polite introductions."

"No, not good enough," Buffy retorted. "I don't know you, or how you're connected to Spike, but if you think I'm just gonna let you scamper off with the Big Bad Bag O' Crazy here, then…"

"What? It didn't sound to me like you really cared…"

"Stop!"

Both women looked down at the vampire curled up on the floor. The chain fence rattled as he pressed himself deeper into the corner and started rocking on his heels, forehead jammed to his knees.

"Angry voices… don't like them… no more… stop being angry…"

"I don't have time for this," Buffy muttered. 

"Then leave," Isobelle said, trying to make her voice as neutral as possible. "I'll take care of him. Not like I haven't done it before."

Buffy hesitated, shifting closer to the brunette. "You… you've seen him like this, before?"

"Sort of. I mean, it wasn't… I don't think it was this bad…"

"I… I tried - to get him to go…"

"I know. Like I said, I _heard_ you. You can't bully him into lucidity just because it's annoying you."

"I wasn't… okay. Point made, whoever you are. What do you suggest we do?"

"You mean, aside from getting him out of here?" Isobelle took a steadying breath. "Can we do it now? Safely, that is?"

Buffy shook her head. "Not. Too many students. Too much sunshine. Later, after classes let out. I… I mean, _we_ can come back…"

"No. I'll wait here," Isobelle replied, casting a sad look towards Spike. He was still cowering on the floor, the heels of his boots squeaking as he continued to rock in place.

"I don't think that's such a good idea…" Buffy began, quieting when Isobelle turned her concerned gaze her way.

"I'm not leaving him alone."

Buffy felt the heat rise in her cheeks, a mixture of frustration and embarrassment making her flush in response to this person's refusal to follow her lead. 

"Fine," she replied. "Look, I need to go…"

Isobelle crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "So go."

"…but I'll be back."

Spoken with a bit more antagonism than she'd intended, she was none-the-less pleased to see the stranger's coolness start to waver. The brunette's shoulders dipped as her whole posture softened, the ire leaving her eyes as they now telegraphed a fragile, tired stare, her arms slacking and sliding bonelessly to her sides. Buffy's momentary gratification melted at the defeated look Isobelle now gave her.

"Good. We'll be waiting for you."

With some uncertainty, Buffy made her way through the corridors and up to her office. 

Spike with a friend. 

__

That can't be good…

~+~

Isobelle waited until Buffy was out of sight before turning her attention back to Spike. His head was still bowed but - she noted with mild satisfaction - he'd stopped rocking. With great care, Isobelle walked over and took a seat next to him on the concrete floor.

"Spike?"

"No."

"Spike, it's Isobelle…"

"No. Not supposed to be here."

"Spike, look at me."

He hugged his knees more tightly to his chest. "No. I can't. I… I need to do my lessons. Go now."

"I'm not leaving. Spike, don't you remember? You called… wanted me to…"

"NO! No. Mistake. Mine… I… I need to work it out… I'm not getting this right… none of it is _right_…"

"Spike, _please…_"

He released his knees, only to jam his fists over his ears. Words tumbled from his mouth as he tried to block her out and shut himself off from his surroundings.

"Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis…"

This was nothing like before. That first time, when they'd met, as sullen as he'd been, she'd been able to reach him, let him know that he wasn't alone. But this was frighteningly different, nothing like the terrors he'd suffered those first couple of weeks, when he'd thrash and cry in his sleep, his spirit and psyche shredded by nightmares, forcing him to relive his vilest deeds. Then, he'd let her in, accepting her kindness and comfort; but now, seeing him like this, rejecting her hand after begging her to come for him…

She rolled to her knees and positioned herself flush against his shins. He flinched when she lay her hands over his, but he didn't shake them off. She frowned, his recitations growing louder as she stroked the backs of his fingers with her thumbs. 

"Spike…"

"…amaris, amatur, amamur, amamo…_no_, amamini, amantur…"

"Listen to me…"

"…amabam, amabas…"

"Amabat, amabamus, amabatis…" she supplied.

Spike's eyes flew open and connected with hers. She proffered a wan smile and gave his hands a squeeze. She could see the clarity start to shine in his eyes as lucidity crept to the fore of his psyche.

"Private school, remember? Where Latin is still one of the staples."

"A dead tongue," he whispered. "A dead tongue for a dead man…"

"Stop it," she admonished. "I don't like it when you talk like that."

"That's what I am."

"You're more than that."

"I'm death…"

"No," she said, shaking her head, "Not anymore, not like before…"

Watery sapphire eyes searched her face, then roamed to the scarf secured around her neck. Pulling one hand from hers, he hooked a finger under the wisp of silk, freeing the knot and letting the fabric slither down her skin. Isobelle trembled as he grazed the silvered scar. There was no pain this time; her nerves sang with pleasure as he traced the outline of his bite.

"Just. Like. Before," he intoned. "I ruined you. It's what I do…"

"But I'm still here," she interrupted. "You didn't…"

__

Kill me, she silently completed.

"I'm not right," he said softly, his hand still lingering over her throat. The bald intimacy of his touch muddled her brain, nearly making her forget the purpose of her being in Sunnydale, in this basement and, now, at his side. Even after everything that had happened, with one simple stroke on her flesh, he had wiped away any resolve she'd had about settling their debts, taking her leave of him and this whole dark adventure. 

"Everything's so fucked around here. I don't know what's real anymore… these things I see, or say, or do…" 

His voice hitched and he gave the hand, still wrapped with hers, a squeeze. "But I can feel you. You're here, aren't you?"

"I'm really here," she replied, voice shaking as she tried to keep her own tears under control.

"I shouldn't have asked… this is a bad place, 'belle."

"Then leaving is the right thing to do. We'll get you out of here and it will be better."

He shook his head. "Won't."

"It will. Believe me."

" 'belle…"

"Have I ever let you down before?"

His eyes darkened and the hand still clutching hers tightened its already bone-cracking grip, making her wince before he let it drop and clambered to his feet.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "You have."

Confusion played across her face as she watched him pace the narrow aisle along the fencing. Standing slowly, she took a step towards him, feeling a kick in her gut as, with great deliberateness, he retreated from her advance.

"H… how, exactly," she managed, "have I let you down?"

He twined his fingers through the chain links of the fence, the metal, grating, as he flexed and pulled at the thick meshing. It felt good against his skin. Solid, slick and sturdy. He pressed his cheek into it, concentrating on the sensation and keeping his back turned to the brunette, hovering a few feet away.

"Never mind," he said. "Leave. Now. It'll be alright."

"No… I mean… I came a long way to find you. I … I'm not leaving _now_."

Carefully, she eased up behind him and set her hand lightly on his shoulder.

"You asked for my help," she said softly. He cringed under her palm, but she didn't pull it away. "And I'm here. Please Spike, come with me. It'll be okay."

~+~

She was really here.

And he needed her to go.

At first he thought it was another trick. The Other was good at his games, showing Spike exactly what he wanted to see, flashing him a bit of hope and then laughing when he _poofed_ it away. When she came into sight, he thought she was an illusion, one more trick twisted out of his fragmented mind: his _other_ girl, here to save him. Again.

But the details had been wrong. 

It was her, but different. The lush curves that had defined the body he'd once known - once poured over and mapped, with his eyes, hands and mouth - had thinned; although still rounded and feminine, the woman standing before him, arguing with the other Buffy, was now only a shadow of what he remembered. The glitter had faded from blue eyes that used to radiate acceptance and affection. Her, but not. Convinced of it.

Then, she had touched him.

He'd felt the warmth of her skin when her fingers curled around his hands. A small gesture that made her solid - made her real, and not one of the torments plucked from his psyche for the Other's sport.

But while the Other was here, she wouldn't be safe. That was a promise he knew his keeper would honour. 

She was still talking. Even as he gripped the fence and fought to keep his back turned on her, she continued to reach out to him. His sweet little saviour. His healer, his beating heart, his never-to-be-realized future. Wanting to make him better.

Her palm rested on his shoulder and he flinched. More touching. Not bad or coveting, nor a caress prefacing a blow. 

"Please Spike, come with me. It'll be okay."

Come with me.

__

Come for me. I've got you.

It'll be okay.

__

It's okay, love. Do it.

"Liar."

He felt her palm jerk from his shoulder. The chain fence rattled loudly as he unfurled his fingers from the links and whirled around to face her. She looked stunned.

"Wha… what did you say?" she stammered, eyes wide with confusion.

"Liar," he repeated, taking a step forward. It was her turn to slide away, keeping her distance from the agitated vampire now bearing down on her. 

"That's how you let me down. You. Lied. To. Me. _Told_ me to do it. That it would be okay." He reached out to trace the scar again, but Isobelle ducked his hand.

"You knew what I was… what I could do… and you let me…"

"An accident," she interrupted. "No-one's fault."

"Somebody's always to blame."

"If I thought that was true, I wouldn't be here. You ask for my help and then, once I find you, you push me away? No. I don't see that happening."

Stepping past him, she took a seat on the cement floor and rested her back against the fence. "You want me to leave," she continued, "I will. After we get you out of here. Not a moment sooner."

He watched as she shoved away the broken crates with her foot and then gestured for him to sit beside her. After a few moments, he complied. The metal links grabbed at the frayed material of his shirt as he settled in place. Close to her, so that he could feel the heat wafting from her body and filling his lungs with her vanilla-laced scent. Close enough to keep reminding himself that she was here. 

And that she was real.

~+~

They sat in silence, facing the heady gloom of the basement together. Isobelle had been relieved when he took his seat. The urge to reach over and take his hand back into hers was almost painful, but she resisted the impulse, instead wrapping her arms around her knees.

" 'belle?" Even his whisper seemed loud in the smothering hush around them. 

"Hm?"

"You know what helps?"

"Helps what?" she asked. She tilted her head to the side to see him, her heart sinking like lead in her chest.

Whatever lucidity she'd seen reflected in his eyes earlier had vanished. Wet, manic blue eyes shone at her through the dim light.

"Being here," he supplied. "Quiet. Being quiet. Not as bad. Doesn't hurt so much if you're quiet." He crept a bit closer and lay his head on her shoulder. "Are you here to help me be quiet today?"

"Yes," she eventually managed. She felt his smile on her skin as he nestled closer, and tried her best to keep her frustrated cry from bubbling out of her throat.

"Thank you," he mumbled. "Then, we can sit here and be quiet together, and it will be okay. Right?" When she didn't respond, he pressed more tightly to her side. "Right?" he repeated, hope cracking his voice.

"Right," she agreed, fresh dread making her shiver. "It will be okay."

~+~


	3. Concession

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Archive: If you like. Just tell me where.

Acknowledgements: Eternal thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me literate and allows me to indulge in some girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It is OC, so deal with it or bail now. J 

Timeline: Post 'Selfless'

Email: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

If you would like to be notified when new chapters are posted, please sign up at: 

A/N: ::beats 'Girly Selfishness' sign with a big stick until it cracks:: You've been warned.

This chapter is dedicated to Kristen, the original Spelle shipper, who only had one request regarding this chapter. I hope she's pleased.

~+~

Buffy never came back.

Hours had passed, painfully slow, as Isobelle kept her station by Spike's side in the eerie dark of the Sunnydale High basement. He'd tucked himself tight to her shoulder, keeping silent and still for the longest time. Every now and again, his hand would reach out to hers and give it the lightest of touches, before he'd pull it back. Then, he'd sigh: a thin, fluttery exhalation into the crook of her neck, and he'd be still again…

For awhile.

The moments were brief, but frightening, as Spike, with no warning, would jump to his feet and start screaming at the nothingness around them, begging it to leave them alone. He'd pace and yell and fling whatever was at hand down the dim hallways at his imaginary tormentor, before returning to her and going quiet once more.

It had broken what was left of her heart to see him that way, and, eventually, she'd decided to get him out on her own, no longer trusting that the angry little blonde girl would ever come back for them. She'd left Buffy a note - just in case - and prepared Spike to make their escape. At first, to her amazement, he'd wavered; even in his delusional state, with fear sparking in his blue eyes, he'd been reluctant to take her hand and go. She'd pleaded for him to follow her out, swaying him only when she, herself, had refused to go and leave him behind. After wandering the corridors - for what seemed like forever - they'd finally emerged into the chilly twilight of the Sunnydale evening.

It hadn't gotten any better, back at the hotel. With each mile that had passed, as the school had faded into the distance, Spike had crept towards lucidity, the tenor of his silence shifting from shy and anxious to a bowed humility. Before, as muddled as he'd been, he'd at least answered her when she spoke. But now, he kept his head down, refusing to meet her eyes, giving only a passive nod to anything that she said. By the time they reached the door to her room, he was as shut down as when she'd first found him.

She slid the electronic keycard into its slot and pushed open the door. By the light from the hallway, she made her way to the small settee in the room and dropped her bag. Turning, she noticed Spike was still standing on the other side of the threshold.

"Are you coming in? Or do I need to invite you?"

Spike shook his head. "Don't need an invitation."

"Then why are… "

"Lights," he interrupted. "Can you turn on the lights, please?"

Isobelle snapped on a table lamp. A yellow halo bloomed around the settee and filtered through the rest of the darkened room. From the doorway, Spike scanned the surroundings, then carefully crossed into the room.

"Since when do you need help seeing in the dark?"

He ignored the question, edging by her to take a seat on the small sofa.

"So," he said softly, "Now what do we do?"

Isobelle turned the lock on the door and leaned against the frame. "I don't know. I hadn't planned on… I mean, I didn't think I would find you so quickly… " 

"You shouldn't have come."

She glanced over at him. Somehow, he managed to look very small, almost fragile, sitting in the pale lamplight. Head still bowed, he worried the frayed hem of his shirt, his fingers pulling loose threads free from the ruined fabric. 

"You asked me to come."

He winced. That small gesture pulled yet another piece of her resolve from its sticking place. She had to remind herself why she was there: to help him. 

Nothing more. It wouldn't be wise. If she caved, gave in to her feelings and ignored her plan and purpose, all it would do would be to heap more misery onto what was already stuffed inside her heart.

"I was wrong to pull you here… into this… " He gave a pained laugh. "This was easier when I was the babbling wreck." He risked a quick look in her direction. "But, I suppose there's nothin' easy about any of this."

It was her turn to let a comment slide. To agree with him would only feed into the understatement of his words; to contradict, out of politeness, would have been a plain lie. It was safer to let it go.

"The bathroom is over there, if you want to clean up." She gestured off to his left. "And I brought some of your clothes from…" _From home_, she nearly said, catching herself in time to avoid adding another turn of the screw to this painful exchange. She pulled a valise out of the closet and set it beside a door on the opposite side of the room. "Um, it isn't much, but there's a bed and stuff… you can… you're staying in there."

He nodded. There was a cold familiarity to this awkward scene, a deja vu devoid of warm or pleasant feelings. They had played this out before, but without the ties and entanglements that made this so fucking hard now: her help and his need had been more easily reconciled when they'd been strangers.

"A shower sounds good," he replied, more than aware of his wrecked state. "I'm sure even the flies would avoid me now." He headed towards the sanctuary of the bathroom, pausing in the doorframe long enough to send her another tentative look.

"Been here before, haven't we? Square one?"

"I think we're a few steps back from square one, Spike," she replied, tamping down the flutter of pity she felt as his gaze fell from her to the floor.

"I know. I… I know you can't ever… forgive me… for what I did to you… "

"Spike, this isn't the time… "

"…But I am sorry… "

"You've said that already."

"I'll say it until I know you believe me… until it means somethin'… "

"Alright, Spike, I get that… "

"Do you? Really?" A bit of hope inflected his voice. It made Isobelle grit her teeth. "I never meant to hurt you… I… it just happened… "

"Enough!" she snapped. He quieted immediately, his eyes flitting to hers, wide with apprehension. "I said I didn't want to talk about this now. Can't you just… dammit, Spike, do you even know what it is you need to apologize for?"

He mumbled something she couldn't hear. Going over to him, she pulled the silk scarf free from her neck, exposing the pale, silver scar. "What was that?" she prodded.

"H… hurting you," he managed.

"How? How did you hurt me?"

She could feel his eyes pass over the healed rent in her flesh. It sparked under his gaze, sending warm tingling threads of pleasure - and pain - through her body.

"This?" She took his hand and pressed it to her neck.

"Yes," he rasped, running a thumb over his mark.

She shook her head.

"Wrong. We _both_ did this. I opened myself… let you have your taste… this was… _us_, and it doesn't need forgiving. _This_ is not what you need to be sorry for… "

She moved his hand away and took a step back.

"You left me. _Alone._ I woke up sick and scared… I needed you. And _you_ weren't there."

"Isobelle, I… "

"Do you know how horrible that was? To wake up and know that you'd left - that you had _bolted_ - the moment something went wrong?"

"I couldn't stay… not after what I'd done… "

"_ENOUGH_!" she spat, her patience finally running out. "Enough with the _I_ shit, Spike! That wasn't _just_ about you, but about _us_! We had a crisis and you _fucked off_ and left me alone! I… I trusted you and… dammit, I said I didn't want to do this now… "

She turned from him and retreated to the bed. Tears of frustration stung the backs of her eyes but she didn't cry. She wouldn't cry. Not now. Not in front of him. 

"You're seeking absolution for the wrong sin," she muttered, working hard to keep her voice calm. "You don't need to be pardoned for the bite. But for abandoning me… killing my trust… " She swallowed, resisting the urge to glance his way, "I don't know if I can forgive you for that."

Turning down the same worn coverlet from that morning, she climbed onto the mattress and burrowed under the linen.

"Don't say anything, Spike. No more. Just… go take your shower."

A long moment passed before she heard the bathroom door click shut. She listened to the running water. The fuzzy white noise of the spray splattering on the tiles melted away some of the miserable tension that twisted inside, nearly lulling her to sleep. She shouldn't have caved. Going off on him about the hurt feelings, letting her emotions rule her good sense, had been indulgent and cruel. That wasn't what she'd wanted. None of this was what she'd wanted.

But really, she couldn't have expected anything else.

~+~

Spike watched the last of the water swirl down the drain before stepping out of the shower. He kicked his grimy clothes to one corner of the tiny bathroom and wrapped his still-dripping body with one of the terry robes hanging on the door. The hot water had cleansed his skin, but had done little for his spirit. Fresh layers of shame and guilt covered what little solace Isobelle's presence had brought him, making him face the reality of what he had done to her. That the bite had been nothing, but abandoning her… 

He shuddered. Her revelation had devastated him. No one had ever thanked him for staying before, after his fuck-ups and blunders and schemes. He had no reason to expect that she would want him to stay after what he had done. Leaving had satisfied both the coward and the penitent that lived inside his re-souled self. Staying had never been an option, for, in the past, it had always led to badness. Not that he'd known it at the time. Staying, taking the hate and the punishment and the abuse… thinking it meant something… 

He'd never reconcile any of his choices. He'd always stayed when he should have left, but this time he'd left when he should have stayed. Neither choice would have been easy to live with, but now, he had to deal with the notion that had he not left, he and Isobelle might still be together…

That all his suffering, these past few weeks, had been for nothing.

He cinched the robe a bit tighter around his waist and carefully cracked open the door. He made his way through the semi-darkness of the room, giving Isobelle's sleeping form a long look before he retreated to his own quarters. He flicked the light switch, cursing as a hollow _pop_ signaled the death of the lone bulb in the fixture. Climbing into the centre of the narrow twin bed, he tried to ignore the nervous dread that welled in his belly. 

Gathering the sheets closer, he shut his eyes against the blackness. He'd traded the basement for a bed, the loneliness for a comforting hand, but it still didn't quell the unease of being in the dark.

Not that it was anything new. Childhood fears of the dark, of the creaks and shadows that toyed with innocent imaginations, had been yet another way little William could disappoint his father. Many nights he'd lain awake and peered into the far corners of his bedchamber, to tease out a glimpse the monsters that he _knew_ lurked just beyond the glow of the oil lamp at his bedside. Again, it had been Mother that indulged his sensitivity, sometimes sitting with him until he drifted off to sleep, her voice murmuring a gentle tune that he carried into his dreams.

He waited. And he listened. No voices, from within or without. The Other had yet to appear and make the usual taunts or threats, and the soul was frighteningly calm. Even in the face of Isobelle's painful honesty, his better self had remained quiet, neither adding to his misery, nor in trying to reach out to her, as she'd vented her own. _Small mercy_, he thought, regarding the soul's silence. _It_ should have been clawing at his chest, trying to connect with her, like it had over the summer. Instead, _It_ lay there, unflinching, curled upon _Itself_. 

Waiting.

Waiting for Isobelle to either let _It_ closer, or send _It_ away, for good. Waiting for any sign that she wanted _It_ - _him_ - back, or if she had come all this way for a final goodbye. Waiting to see if her favour would be swayed by compassion, or by disappointment.

Sighing, he gave his pillow a nasty punch and tried to burrow more deeply into the rumpled bedding. He was tired of waiting. The basement had been nothing but three weeks of suffering and abuse, wondering if anyone gave enough of a piss about him to haul his ass out of the dank and back into the semi-real world of Sunnydale. Or, if finally tired of his presence, the Slayer - or one of the others - would finally make good on years of threats to render him into dust, ridding themselves - and the world - of one more nuisance vamp.

He was tired of waiting. It wasn't his style, and it never worked in his favour. Fools might rush in, but at least they got the job done. Or their asses kicked. Either way, there was action, result, and resolution. She was here, one, thin door away, tucked, alone, in an empty bed. 

Action. 

She came for him.

Result. 

She found him.

Resolution?

That was up to him. 

__

She'll never take you back, you know…

His eyes snapped open, only to be met by the blackness of the room. Habit made him fumble for the long-abandoned gaslight at his bedside. He was defenseless against the dark, unable to see his tormentor. The Other was making his nightly visit. He wrapped his arms around his head and shivered as the voice continued to whisper in his ear. Even here, away from the school - from the basement - there was no respite from the Other and his games.

__

This is pity, boy. She feels sorry for you. She isn't here out of love. This is obligation. 

He staggered out of bed, nearly tripping as the robe tangled around his legs. "Isn't," he retorted, blindly searching for the door. "She's never felt sorry for me. _Never_."

__

You sure about that?

His hand seized the doorknob and he gave it a vicious twist.

"Fuck off."

__

Heh - I knew it.

"Shut. UP!" he spat, escaping into the dimly lit space of the main room.

"Sorry. Didn't know I was making any noise."

Isobelle was on the settee, wrapped in the thin coverlet from her bed. She popped the top on a can of ginger ale and poured a small measure into a plastic tumbler.

" 'belle… sorry… I wasn't… " 

He scanned the room, looking for the source of that lilting, smug voice. "Wasn't talking to you."

"Then who…?" She sighed and shook her head. "Never mind." She pulled up her legs, making room for Spike on the other end of the small sofa. "After today, I wouldn't expect… well, I don't know what to expect. I don't know what's been happening to you since… "

"I left."

"Yeah." 

She flashed her best effort of a smile his way. "You gonna sit? Looking up at you hurts my neck."

He reciprocated her gesture. "Feel like sharing that can?" he asked, nodding at the soft drink container sweating in her hand. A little warmth crept into her eyes, her grin becoming more sincere.

"Sure. At three dollars a shot, I can't afford to waste a drop." She nodded towards the small fridge on the far side of the room, from where she'd snagged the can. It was positioned between the honour bar and a mini-microwave. He loped over to the bar and pulled a shot-sized bottle of rye from the rack. "As long as you're splurging… you mind?" he asked.

"Take two," she replied. "I think it's been earned."

He settled next to her on the settee, adding the contents of the single-shot bottle to the can she handed him. She poured some into her own tumbler, before dumping the remainder into Spike's drink.

He tilted the can in her direction. "Are we drinking to anything?"

"The end of the day? Amazing luck?" She shrugged. "Dunno. Have any ideas?"

"None that won't provoke deep, touchy-feely conversation. Sorry about before, 'belle. I didn't mean to push."

"And I didn't mean to snap. This is all… God, do you have any idea how far beyond reality all of this is?" She sipped her drink, hoping the bite of the alcohol would snap things into place. All it did was burn her throat, so she set the tumbler aside. "What… what was happening to you? Down there?"

He took a long pull from the pop can. "Lots of weirdness down there. Too long to go into tonight."

"You were acting crazy."

"I was. I mean, I _was_, 'belle. At least, that's how it felt."

__

Feels, he reminded himself. _Not over it yet, mate._

"You were… hearing things? Like before, over the summer? When you'd have those dreams… "

"Not quite. Thing you gotta know about this place… this _town_… this is where Evil takes its holiday. Any and all manners of weirdness can happen." He sloshed the contents of the can, listening to the _fizz_ and _pop_ of the ginger ale. "I don't… I mean, I'm not sure what was goin' on, down there. But," he took another long sip, "I know it wasn't all in my head."

"Well," Isobelle said cautiously, "I know that girl wasn't a figment of my imagination."

"No. She's real enough."

She nodded. And waited. After a lengthy pause, she nudged his thigh with her foot. "Do I have to ask? Or does this fall under the 'touchy-feely' category?"

He swallowed the last of his drink. "Touchy. Feely. Punchy and kicky. It isn't a pretty story. It can wait 'til later."

"I take it she knows… "

"What I am?" He gave a small, sad laugh. "Intimately."

"Intimately," she repeated, her stomach knotting as the word rolled off her tongue. She recalled the callousness of the blonde's words, the lack of compassion in the young woman's eyes as she'd coldly told him to prove himself - and his soul - to her. Only people who've loved could be so cruel. 

" 'belle… "

"It's fine. I knew there was - had been - someone… I guess I thought it was someone who gave a damn about you… "

"She has reasons, 'belle."

"Reasons? Like mine? Think she'll want to compare scars?"

"Not unlike yours," he admitted. "And, it isn't something she'll likely chat about, either."

She retrieved her tumbler from the coffee table and took a healthy gulp, wincing as the liquid went down.

"Then it's something we'll have to add to our own list. I don't see myself having any heart-to-hearts with her in the future, either."

Spike leaned over and relieved her of the plastic tumbler, then took her hands in his own. He tried to hold back his disappointment when she flinched.

"I know this is fucked up five ways from Sunday, 'belle. And, I also know that it may never be right between us… "

"Spike… it's late… "

"…but I want to try."

She pulled away and levered off the settee. This time, the hurt was evident on his face, as he watched her back away.

"I didn't come here so you could _try_, Spike. I… I came because you asked for my help."

"You sure that's the only reason?" 

"Yes."

Somewhere, in a far corner of the room, he thought he heard laughter. Shaking off the panic that rolled through his gut, he pushed up from the sofa and went to her side.

"So, you're here out of pity, then? Tell me now, 'belle, and I'll go."

"Go where?" she asked, shaking her head. "You said today that you didn't have anywhere else to go… "

"And if you don't want me," he interrupted, "If you're here because you felt sorry for me, then I _truly have_ no where to go. I don't _belong_ here, unless you _want_ me here. And I can't be here, around you, if that's the case. I'm just as well off, back in that pit."

She wavered at that. He was pushing hard to make his point, but she knew he wasn't exaggerating. If she denied him the truth of her feelings - confused as they were - she had no doubt he'd head straight back to the basement, and indulge in a penitent's misery until he slipped irretrievably into madness.

Seeing her moment of hesitation, he continued on. "I don't expect that you'll ever have me back. But I owe you better than this… "

"You don't owe me anything," she told him. "This isn't something you keep score on, Spike."

"Maybe not, but I do have a debt to you, love… "

"Please don't call me that," she begged, her voice thickening with frustration. Her eyes glimmered with tears. Denying him, when he was being so painfully sincere, was excruciating. It would be so easy to let him back in, to give him that chance to show her how it should - how it _could_ - be, again.

"Can't help it," he said softly, "It's what I see when I look at you. Even now, after everything… you smell of it, 'belle," he leaned close, breathing in her scent. He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "…and taste of it… "

"Please, stop… "

"Look at me."

Hesitant blue eyes met his. He placed a finger on her neck, tracing the faded scar, tracking the curve over her skin. He could feel her flush, the heat rolling off her body in waves. She trembled under his touch, and he slid his free arm around her waist to keep her from falling to her knees.

"Did you feel that, baby?" he murmured. Her hands clutched at his forearms as she tried to steady herself. Her head was swimming. Sparks of colour and light danced in front of her eyes. One touch from him, one small stroke of his finger across her flesh, had sent the sweetest bolt of pleasure through her body.

"Wh… why does it do that?" 

"Don't know, but it means somethin' when it does."

She swiped a tear from her cheek. "It hurts, too. Sometimes." 

He nodded. "That happens, love."

"Why?"

He shook his head. "As I said before, I don't know. Maybe because love is both pleasure _and_ pain."

She tried to pull free of his grasp, but he held her in place. "Who said anything about love, Spike?"

"You did. Remember?"

She did. She'd said it so casually on her way out the door, on their last morning together. She hadn't even been aware that she'd said it until later. They'd never had the chance to deal with it.

She gave a slight nod, which sent another tear slipping down her cheek.

"If you meant it," he continued, "even for a moment, then give me the chance to try and make this right," he kissed the salty drop from her skin, "please… "

Another soft laugh came from the shadows.

She wasn't caving. Submitting to the truth was not sacrificing purpose. Giving comfort was _not_ giving in. His earnestness had cracked the last of her resolve. She was too tired to continue pretending that she was here out of goodwill and kindness, that closure was her reward for answering his call for help. 

She was here, because, sad and wrong as it sounded, she still loved him.

"You… hurt… me… " she said brokenly, letting the tears fall freely. "You hurt me, and you left me… and I hate you for that… I _want_ to hate you for that… "

"That's part of love, too, babe," he said, holding her tighter in his arms. "It's the one I know the most about."

She dried her eyes on the lapels of his terrycloth robe before meeting his gaze.

"Don't ever do that to me again," she intoned. He nodded, and she eased back into his embrace. 

"Promise," he whispered. 

He buried his nose in her hair, smiling into her curls, as he felt the soul inside stir.

~+~

The Other grinned at the scene before it. _So heartfelt. So sweet and eager, those two._

And the vampire, with his sad little promise…

Making him break it was going to be fun.

TBC…


	4. Encounters

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Archive: If you like. Just tell me where.

Acknowledgements: Eternal thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me literate and allows me to indulge in some girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It is OC, so deal with it or bail now. J 

Timeline: Post Selfless

Email: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

If you would like to be notified when new chapters are posted, please sign up at: #1: I seem to be apologizing for the delay in updates with each new post, but that might be the way this series will be presented: delayed. Between RL and an increasingly paranoid (and binty) Muse, it takes longer for me to produce something that I'm relatively happy with. So, I will offer apologies now for all future delays in posting. Believe me, I am putting them up the moment they've been completed, and for those of you reading, I thank you for your understanding and patience.

A/N #2: A huge, heartfelt thank you to the wonderful Nimue Tucker, for her input and encouragement on this chapter. Every email and comment was appreciated and treasured. 

~+~

Spike shuffled out of his room, giving a quiet sigh as he tried to stretch the kinks out of his back. Achy joints, recently unused to resting on padded mattresses, creaked as he worked them into place. He glanced to his left, towards the large bed on the far side of the main room, letting his gaze linger on its lone, sleeping occupant. Despite the late hour of the morning, it wasn't surprising that Isobelle hadn't woken yet. It had been a long night for both of them, a night cluttered with cautious conversation and raw emotions - feelings so damaged and wounded that they bled when expressed. So much had needed saying, but neither was willing to push the other, having to be satisfied with a polite reaffirmation of their… friendship? Were they back to that? 

__

I think we're a few steps back from square one. 

Her words from last night. And she'd stuck to them. He hadn't gotten more than that one hug - one small, tight embrace, when she'd dried her tears on the lapel of his robe and extracted the simplest of promises from him: not to hurt her again. His reward for that vow had been to spend a few more hours by her side before she'd sent him away to his solitary bed. 

He'd kept the dark away with the lamp by the settee and, bathed in its weak yellow glow, sleeping fitfully. The loneliness of the basement had been nothing compared to spending last night, curled on a narrow mattress, one mere doorway separating him from Isobelle. He wanted to be closer, to be back in her bed and her arms, snugged tight to her body, reacquainting himself with the softness of her hair, the taste of her skin…

And her scent. The smell of her - sweet and familiar - in his nose, like it had been before. But not quite like before. Now, it was different. Once, she'd smelled of vanilla and innocence. And love. Bright and pure and good. Now, the cleanness of vanilla was gone from her skin, replaced by the warm earthiness of sandalwood and roses. A woman's scent, whispering promises of deep passion and commitment. And, under it all, a darker note, one of lust and longing and precious pain. His scent, driven into her flesh - into her _being_ - by his teeth, on that hateful night, now months past. His mark went deeper than the silvered rent on her neck. It coursed through her blood, permeating every cell; his brand, seared into every fibre of her being. She was his. Together or apart, in love, despair or hate, part of her belonged to him. 

And would. Forever.

He let that thought percolate in his mind as he crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He winced as the mattress creaked, dipping under his weight. She shifted under the thin coverlet, hands twisting the sheets under her chin, as she slept. He frowned. She didn't look peaceful, lying there with linen knotted in her fists, her body nearly corkscrewed around a thin, down-leaking pillow. He plucked a feather from the pillow seam, fluffing the crushed vanes into a semblance of their living form. He drew the tiny quill down his cheek, letting it dance over his lips and under his nose. Her scent had permeated the bedding, the down - the feather that he held in his fingers. He breathed it in, pulling her scent deep into his lungs. Sense memory kicked in, his body tingling in response, the instinctual tightening in his groin causing him to moan softly as his jeans restricted his stirring erection.

It would be so easy to slide under the covers, to replace the abused pillow with his own form, and try to work his way back to the place he'd left behind. He wanted to coax a smile back to her sleeping lips. Wanted her to smile at him again. 

But he wouldn't. 

It wouldn't be right.

A chill ran down his spine and he hunched over her sleeping body. This time when he moaned, it was from the hunger pangs that cramped his belly. It had been days since… well, since he'd stopped counting. His last meal was a foggy memory. He hated waking her, but if he didn't feed soon, it wouldn't be good.

" 'belle," he whispered, giving her shoulder a small shake. Her body uncoiled under the linen as she stretched herself into consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open, their dark blue irises focusing on him.

"Morning," he offered, testing the waters with a small grin. She blinked at him, de-tangling herself from the sheets. Sleep-heavy limbs gracelessly fumbled her into a sitting position, her back thudding against the carved pseudo-oak headboard.

"What time is it?" she asked, rubbing her eyes.

"Nearly nine. I was gonna let you sleep, but I didn't want you to miss breakfast."

He worked hard at keeping the grin fixed in place; she had yet to reciprocate with any such gesture.

"You know," he continued, "place like this must have the standard Continental fare. I wouldn't want you to miss out on the complimentary stale bagel and coffee-scented hot water."

That earned him a small laugh. She tucked her feet beneath her, giving him room to edge closer. 

"As appealing as you make it sound, I think I'll pass," she said. "I'm not that hungry this morning."

"Still feelin' the effects of last night's tipple?" 

This time she really smiled. "Sorta. You know better than to let me drink stuff like that."

"Then you need something in your belly. Best possible cure. Somethin' hot to sip, and, maybe one of those cinnamon-y things you like. I promise not to pretend the raisins are flies."

More smiling. More pretending things were normal between them. 

"That's generous of you," she replied, rustling the sheets as she slid out of bed, "but I don't think so."

She headed towards the bathroom, collecting Spike's discarded robe along the way. He tensed again as hunger grabbed at his gut.

"Uh, because, I could run and get you something while you - well, you know," he said, gesturing at her destination. "And then we could - "

Not even pausing, she glanced over her shoulder at him. "Spike. No thanks. I'm not hungry."

"But I am."

That stopped her dead in her tracks. He saw her shoulders slump, and when she finally turned his way, guilt had driven any remnants of her smile from her face.

"Spike?"

"I mean… I'll get something for you while you do the girly stuff, and then, if you don't - you know - we could get something… for me."

The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back. The look in her eyes reminded him of the cackled taunts from the night before.

__

This is pity, boy.

She feels sorry for you.

This is obligation…

That's what he saw.

"God, I forgot - " she began, stopping as he pushed off the bed and headed for the door. He snagged the keycard off the bedside table as he breezed past her. _Shouldn't have woken her,_ he silently chastised. _She got you out. The rest is up to you._

"Right. Not an issue. Can find my own nosh and all. Don't need you holding my hand every step. I'll be back in a few."

"No, Spike, wait - let me get dressed and I'll go with you - "

"Think I can do this on my own. Most of the marbles have shifted back in place," he said, tapping his temple with the keycard. "I'll be fine."

"Wait, dammit," she replied, tripping over the shoes she'd discarded by the settee the night before. She slid them on and caught hold of his hand as it wrapped around the doorknob.

"Wait?" he asked. "Why? Afraid I won't come back? Or," he intoned, pulling his hand free of hers, "that I _will_?"

"If I didn't want you here, I would've let you leave last night."

A long moment passed as both let those words settle between them. With a small sigh, Isobelle fished a $20 out of her sleep-wrinkled jeans and stuffed it in his pocket. "Get something decent. I'll… I'll wait here. Maybe see if room service will deliver some of that coffee-scented hot water."

Hand back on the doorknob, he canted half a nod in her direction and cracked open the door. Instead of an empty, berber-lined hallway, he was greeted by a petite redhead's shy pixie grin. Thrusting a paper sack into Spike's hands, she nodded nervously at the surprised faces before her.

"Did somebody say 'Room Service'?"

~+~

Buffy checked her watch for the fourth time. She'd given Willow the note with the scrawled hotel address nearly half an hour ago, before her retreat to the quiet corner booth in the Espresso Pump. It was well after 9:00 AM; she needed to be at the school - at her normal-life's job - in less than an hour. Waving off the persistent waiter yet again, she sank a bit deeper into the padding of her seat, letting the soft, worn stuffing ease some of the stiffness and ache that was left over from her previous night's encounter with Anya.

Or rather, Anyanka. _That's a fine hair to be splitting,_ she thought, dumping the bowl of sugar packets out in front of her, nervous fingers fidgeting with the paper-wrapped servings. Part of her hadn't recognized the thing she'd fought. _Tried to kill,_ she corrected. But, that was her job; manifest destiny and all that crap. Slayer. Demon. Slayer kills the demon. Friend or foe - did it matter? Should it matter? 

And, if it didn't, what did that say about her?

Sugar packets now sorted by colour, she started stacking them. First, brown. Then blue. White…

__

And pink! Don't forget the pink…

The _swish_ of the door took her attention from the sweetener fort. Green eyes roved the late-morning crowd, then settled on the brunette standing by the pastry case. Buffy rose to wave the woman over, then paused. She took a moment to study her. Suss her out, as someone might've said. Buffy didn't see anything remarkable about her. Pretty, she supposed, in a tired, worn way. Dark hair, kind of like Drusilla's - but shorter, with a bit of a curl. The coat she hugged to her frame made it hard to see her build. A bit thick-waisted, maybe, Buffy mused. Like Tara had been - girly curves, sculpted of flesh rather than muscle. Not unattractive, but not noteworthy.

Ordinary.

Except for her eyes. When Isobelle's grim blue gaze found Buffy, the blonde jumped inside. She now knew where the phrase 'stared daggers' came from: those eyes bit into her like knife-tips - sharp, cold and precise as they fell onto their target. 

Buffy held her place as Isobelle made her way over to the booth. Polite nods were exchanged as she sat down. The hovering server honed in on the fresh patron and bee-lined his way to the booth.

"You found the place okay?" Buffy asked in way of a greeting. No need to waste time on pleasant formalities. This wasn't social. This was… business?

__

This was personal.

Isobelle shrugged. "Your messenger had good directions. Wasn't too hard to get here."

"Good. I mean… good. I found your note. Last night. I mean, that's obvious, because I knew where to find you. I didn't forget about you. Or… or him. But something kinda came up and, well, timeliness suffered in the whole basement extraction scenario."

"We managed."

"So I gathered."

"LADIES!"

Both women turned to the server, who had plastered his best 'order-something-or-get-out' smile on his face. Menus were thrust in front of them. "Are we ready to order _NOW?_"

Buffy slapped the plastic-sheathed paper back into the server's hand. "Low fat, half-decaf mocha latte with non-fat whipped crème, cinnamon _and_ chocolate on top. Please."

"And for you?" he asked, turning to Isobelle. She slid her menu to the side. "Just coffee."

"Coffee?" he reiterated.

"Yes. Coffee."

He gave her a blank look. She sighed. "Coffee. Black. With cream and sugar on the side."

He scribbled on his order pad. "I hope I can keep that straight," he commented. "I don't think anyone has asked for 'just coffee' before."

"Imagine that," Isobelle sniped as the server made his escape.

Buffy played with one of the pink sweetener packets. "Thank you for coming. And, so speedily. I really don't have much time. Gotta get to work and all. You understand… "

Isobelle shook her head. "You summoned me here, and now you want to rush through things? No. I'm here. You're here. Last night I told Spike that I didn't envision any deep conversations with you any time soon, but now that you've arranged this little confab, let's talk."

"I'm trying here. You… you kinda came out of nowhere. I don't know who you are or how you're connected to Spike, but I don't like surprises. Especially hostile ones. Kinda my job to squish 'em. But, I'm willing to give this a try."

"Fine."

"Good. How… how do you know Spike?"

Isobelle sighed and rubbed her eyes. "We met at the beginning of the summer. He needed help. I offered it. Spent a few months together, then he… " She paused as their order was delivered. "He left." She took one of the sugar packets from Buffy's fort and dumped it in her coffee. "I didn't hear from him again until a few days ago. He called, asking for help. Again."

Buffy poked the thick crème on her latte with a stirrer. "And you dropped everything just because he called?" 

"That's right."

Buffy nodded thoughtfully. She piled a fat drop of crème and shavings onto the stirrer and popped it into her mouth. "And, you know _what_ he is?"

"Yes. Kind of hard not to notice, what with the blood-drinking and the bumpy forehead." Isobelle took a sip. "I know what you are, too." Off the blonde's surprised look, she continued. "Yeah. You came up. A few times, apparently, though I didn't know at the time that the woman he'd been angsting over this summer was the canonical enemy. That explains quite a bit."

"He… he _told_ you about me? Talked about me?" Buffy dropped the stirrer into the cup. If she hadn't before, Isobelle now held the Slayer's full attention.

"He never mentioned you by name. You… you were always just _there_, in the background. You meant a lot to him. I know he got his… " She took a steadying sip. "I know what he did. For you. And what it did to him. Getting it back. Dealing with it." 

"What else did he tell you? About me?" Buffy asked quietly. The already palpable tension shot up a notch with the little blonde's query. Isobelle shook her head. "Not much else. Like I said, he never told me your name, or too many specifics. I just knew there was someone else."

"Oh. Good. I mean - good." Relief trickled through Buffy. Not knowing what stories Spike might have been sharing about their past had panicked her. _If anyone found out what had really happened…_

Isobelle watched as the girl across from her played with her latte. She was visibly more relaxed after the assurance that Spike hadn't shared details, leaving Isobelle to wonder what she wasn't sharing. 

"So," Buffy continued, "you kinda had an idea… "

"That you existed. Yes."

Green eyes glinted at Isobelle over the bowl of the latte mug. "Funny he never let on anything about you." Buffy slid a worn and dirty business card across the table. "I found this, last night, near your note. Actually, there were a few more, lying around the basement. I never thought anything of it - he was so out of his mind. Who knew where he was getting them… "

Isobelle fingered the card thoughtfully. "Well, now I know how he was able to call." Looking hard at Buffy, she took a breath. "Which begs the question, why did he have to call me for help?"

"Huh?" Buffy grunted, swiping foam off her lip.

"You obviously knew he was down there. Knew what he was like. Why didn't you help him?"

"I was going to - I mean, yesterday, when you showed up. I was going to get him out… "

"I only got a call from him a couple of days ago. How long did you know he was down there?"

The brunette's hard tone made Buffy's cheeks flush. "Long enough," she mumbled in reply.

"How long? A few days?"

"Longer… "

"Weeks?"

"Only about three or so… "

"Three weeks?" she hissed. "You let him rot down there for _three weeks_? Starving and out of his mind… "

"You don't understand," Buffy interrupted. "This is _Spike_, for God's sake. He's… he's not… " She pulled the business card from Isobelle's fingers and waved it between them. "This is _you_. You're… you're _normal_. Why did you get involved with a thing like him? Why do you care… "

Isobelle pushed up from the table. Rifling her coat pocket, she tossed a small handful of bills onto the counter. "He isn't a _thing_," she spat disgustedly. "He has a soul. He has _feelings_. He… " She cinched the coat tightly around her. "I can't believe you're the one he got _It_ back for. Coffee's on me."

Buffy watched in stunned silence as Isobelle stormed out of the Espresso Pump. Piling the bills on top of the cheque, she gathered her own belongings. Yesterday, she'd pondered the implications of Spike having a genuine friend on his side. Today, it was clear this person was more than just his friend.

She was someone who cared.

That made it all the worse.

~+~

"So," Spike said, rinsing his mug in the bathroom sink, "how'd you get shrifted with this duty, Red? Delivery girl, toting bloody snackables and Buffy's invite to breakfast?"

Willow shrugged against the cushions of the settee. "I was the only one with nothing better to do, I guess. No classes until this afternoon."

"So you got conscripted to be Gal Friday?"

"Seems so. Oh, and, if you happened to go all wacky and _grrr_, I suppose I could go Black-Eyed mojo-y on you and no one would sweat it."

"Thanks for the heads-up. I'll try to keep it Emily Post while you're here."

"No problem."

Willow watched with quiet amusement as Spike paced around the hotel room. Every so often, he would pluck at a stray piece of clothing that had been shed the night before, dropped carelessly by its tired bearer. Or, he'd plump the pillows on the unmade bed, straighten the thin sheets, re-organize the paper-wrapped tumblers by the mini-fridge. She'd never seen him fidget before. It was mesmerizing.

"You seem better today," she commented. "Not so looped as before. Been visited by the Sanity Fairy?"

A self-conscious grin flashed across his face. "I think being hauled out of the basement by my ear cured that bit of nuttiness."

"Not a big shock, Spike. School basement. Hellmouth. Weird and evil things scampering around. An easy fix to the sitch, don't you think?"

Spike settled into the Queen Anne reproduction, opposite the settee. "Sure. In the light of lucidity and a demanding hand dragging me out. But there were reasons. For me bein' down there. And bein' out didn't make 'em go away… "

"We don't have to do the big share-a-thon, Spike," Willow interjected. He nodded, settling them into a strangely comfortable silence. Willow squirmed deeper into the cushions of the settee, browsing a magazine. Spike watched her read, slowing twining Isobelle's silk scarf between his fingers.

"Um, Will?" he ventured. Willow looked up from some article on cake decorating, her hazel eyes fixing on Spike's own intense blue gaze.

"I… uh… I just wanted to say… wanted you to know, I mean… "

"Spike?" 

"I know… I heard what happened. To Tara. I'm… I'm right sorry, love."

Willow gripped the magazine in her small fists. "Is this sympathy thing due to that shiny new soul of yours? Or, are you trying to get me weepy, so I'll leave?"

He stopped playing with the scarf, setting the abused bit of silk down on the side table. "The latter, most definitely," he replied stiffly. "God knows there's nothing clean or pure about _my_ soul - nothing that would account for that small bit of pseudo-decency." His calves nearly toppled the chair as he got to his feet. Stalking towards the door, he yanked it open. "But leaving sounds like a plan, yeah? Why exactly are you hoverin' here anyway? Don't think I need a sitter."

"Buffy told me to wait. Until she called. Or until she… your… _friend_… came back."

"Why?"

"Well… I… I dun… dunno. She just said… "

"Oh, she just _said_. Still status quo, I see. Wicked powers aside, you're back bein' the good little soldier. Back in the fold. Takin' orders. One of the _team_ again." He gestured to the hallway. "Go on soldier. March. Don't need the company."

Willow stood, squaring her shoulders in a show of determination. "P… pretty demand-y for someone - who only yesterday - was talking to walls in the school basement. S… so, simmer down, mister. I'll leave when… "

"When what? Buffy gives you permission?"

"You _so_ don't wanna go there on the 'jumping how high' front, Spike."

The vampire kicked the door shut with such force the frame rattled.

"This part of your penance? Be a good girl, do what you're told? Show your gratitude for… " He let the sentence trail off. Waving his hands in surrender, he ducked into his bedroom, to emerge a moment later, slipping into a new-looking dark denim jacket. Taking the spare keycard from the side table, he headed for the door. "You stay. I'll go. Ta for the brunch. 'belle will tip you when she gets back."

Reaching for the doorknob, he'd barely opened it a crack when a force slammed it closed. This time the frame did more than rattle: dust dribbled from the ceiling and a small split snaked its way through the casement.

"Sit," the redhead hissed, "or I'll… I'll turn you into a… a… "

"Turn me into a what, you… " he started, shutting up the instant he turned to face her. The air around her crackled and sparked. Darkness flashed through her eyes as she glared at him. "On the other hand, don't bother finishing that thought." He re-took his seat in the faux Queen Anne, and waited. 

Willow took a long breath and closed her eyes. Nearly vibrating from the effort to calm herself, she eventually settled back onto the settee, a low, sighing moan the only hint of the energy it had cost her to centre herself again.

"Kinda pushing the rehab there, Red," Spike muttered. "Wouldn't do to blow all that hard work tossing a snit fit on me."

"For somebody who recently got their soul back," she grated, "you still know how to piss people off."

"It's a gift, and has nothin' to do with being soulless. You should know. You knew Angel."

"Hmm. Rehabbed and re-souled. Not really the cure-alls for our issues."

He shook his head. "Not at all. Learned the hard way - shit, still learnin' it - there's no easy out. No quick fix. This is all long-haul stuff, kitten."

Willow frowned. Tucking her legs under her, she relaxed a bit more into the settee. "Don't know if I like this."

"Like what?"

"The idea that… that maybe the _one_ person who understands what I'm going through is some sad little vampire with a soul complex."

"We're far from peers in the carnage tally, pet. Don't worry about being lumped in with the likes of me."

"Do numbers even matter? Evil is evil… right?"

"You'd think… but, come to find out, everything matters. Acts, souled or un-souled - they all count. All need to have their due paid."

She quirked an eyebrow in his direction. "You were never this deep before the soul."

"How would you know?" he replied softly. "You never really talked to me before."

Willow felt her cheeks flush. "Well, I… "

"Didn't you say you had classes or something?" 

"Huh? Yeah, but not for awhile… "

The trilling of her cell phone cut her off. Fumbling it out of her small handbag, she looked almost embarrassed as she brought it to her ear.

"Hello? Oh, hi Buffy… "

Spike quietly got to his feet and moved off to the spare room. He tried not to listen to the murmured words. Didn't need to hear that. For lack of anything better to do, he straightened the sheets on the bed. With no sign of housekeeping yet, there was slim chance of them changing so much as a pillowcase in this room today. After a few moments, Willow appeared.

"So… I'm going to go now."

"Got the official okay from the boss, did you?"

"Uh… yeah. And, I do have class in about an hour… "

"Fine. Nice of you to stop by."

He pushed past her and into the main room, once more opening the door for her exit.

"Have a good one Red."

"Uh, yeah." Halfway out the door, she paused, turning back to face Spike as he leaned in the archway. "Thank you."

Blue eyes and a head tilt honed in on Willow's open expression. "For what?"

"For what you said. About Tara. Thank you."

"Oh… well, yeah. Needed sayin'." 

Awkwardness at a peak, Willow started down the hall towards the elevator. She could feel Spike watching her from the doorway. As she waited for the car to arrive, she pivoted on her heel and looked his way.

"Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"You're friend. She's cute."

The glower hit her hard, even at that distance.

"She's straight, Will."

The elevator_ pinged _its arrival. With a sly grin she hopped into the car and called out through the closing doors.

"So was I, once… "

"PATHOLOGICALLY STRAIGHT!" he bellowed, as the panels slid shut.

He swore he could hear her giggling from there.

Retreating back into the sanctuary of Isobelle's room, he locked himself inside and took careful survey of his surroundings. Semi-clean already from his earlier self-conscious hovering, he started to finish the rest of the tidying. Just to pass the time, until she came back…

Then he stopped, struck by the stupidness of it all. This wasn't home. This wasn't their place. It was nothing. An anonymous haunt, fit for hiding in, until they decided what they wanted to do next…

__

No, he corrected. _Until_ she _decided what to do next._ _She_ had come for _him._ It was up to her to plot out the next move. Make the plan, yeah?

"Fuck," he moaned.

Sinking onto her bed, he buried his nose into the pillow, working his fingers deep into the flimsy down-filled pallet. He was beyond pathetic. The voice - the _Other_ - was right. Red had at least been polite about it. Getting out was a good thing, but where did he go now? Buffy obviously wouldn't give him the time of day. She couldn't even make it back when a worthy human life was in the mix of Hellmouth Central…

He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, filling his lungs with her scent. _Their_ scent, to be exact. He could lay there, and pretend it was home, that he was snug in the bed that he once considered theirs - somewhere safe, warm and shared. Pretend that the last few weeks hadn't happened. He could do it. Surrounded by enough of her essence, it was possible.

So, he tried.

And waited.

For her to come back.

~+~


	5. Understanding

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me on track, literate and allows for girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

Thanks as well to the lovely Nimue Tucker, for her valuable comments and support.

Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It's OC, so deal with it or bail now. 

Timeline: Between the episodes 'Him' and 'Conversations With Dead People'

Email: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

If you would like to be notified when new chapters are posted, please sign up at: 

A/N #1: ::Taps 'Girly Selfishness' warning sign. Sign crashes to ground:: Well, time for a new sign.

A/N #2: Eventually this will branch off into its own arc, but for now it will toddle through some of the more SpikeCentric S7 action and themes. Be patient ~ it will get more AU in time.

~+~

"Home, sweet home."

Spike stood before the doors of his crypt. His _former_ crypt, to be precise. Despite the best intentions of a friend, the place was now lost. Not re-inhabited. Not destroyed - well, not _much_ more than it had been last spring. But lost. Gone. No longer a place to lay one's head, feel safe and cozy, enjoy a pint of something and watch the telly. Now, it was only marble slabs, mortar and moss. The heavy doors stood ajar. Musty air wafted out from within, carried through the slips and cracks on the cool evening breeze.

A small note, in Clem's wobbly hand, was taped to one of the pillars. The single-word message simply said _Sorry_. Spike crumpled it in his fist, then shoved it into the pocket of his coat. Not his fault. A place like this wouldn't stand a chance, untended this long. Vandals and transients, each adding their careless marks to the façade, had worn away a bit more of its familiarity, making what it used to be a far cry from what it was this night.

The end of the line.

Or, back to the beginning. Either way, it wasn't what he wanted. Simply put, it was all he had left. 

Stone-and-iron doors groaned in protest on their off-kilter hinges as Spike pushed his way inside. Shafts of silver moonlight cut through the doorway, casting a frosty glow on the interior. He shivered against the chill, the air still and cold, heavy with the powdery burn of mildew and dust. His eyes roved the corners, taking it all in. Or rather, taking in the lack of things that should've been there, and noting, with disappointment, the remaining flotsam within. The refrigerator was gone. Not a big loss; it worked only part of the time. But, it had been his; and now… nothing. The television - or rather, what was left of it - was a burnt-out hulk in the middle of the room, its picture tube kicked in, scorch marks from its dying moments streaked across the rug. There was not one part of the room - not one possession, one monument nor fixture - that'd been spared by some passer-by's destruction. 

He took a moment and stood amidst the ruin. Took careful inventory of each and every insult. His shoulders slumped upon seeing, in one far corner, stacks of abandoned kennels and empty feed and litter containers. Seemed even Clem had been flexible with the truth. Spike had believed him when he'd said the place had been invaded by demons; his friend had simply failed to mention those demons were probably irate business partners. Spike hadn't learned anything from the Suvolte demon egg endeavour. Trusting Clem - and being his friend - sometimes had its disadvantages.

Striking a match, he found some relatively intact candles and set them around the space. It didn't help the wreck look better, but now he could get to work… if only he knew where to start. His boots stirred up the strata of dust and dirt that blanketed the stone floor, marking his criss-crossed path of carting debris and ordering the chaos, foot by foot, in his tomb. He hummed as he worked, nameless tunes, just something to make sound within the hard quiet. Company. His own, but, it would be something he'd have to get used to.

Again. 

After an hour, the worst of it had been cleared, and dumped, beyond sight of the crypt. He'd salvaged little. Some candle holders, the odd box with which to store… nothing, really. Aside from the clothes on his back and a few items back at the hotel, he had little to call his own. Somewhere in the corner of his mind, he recalled a large cardboard box and a hurried visit from Clem during his time in the basement. Whatever had been savable must have been in that box.

But, maybe not everything…

He descended the ladder to the vault below, taking each rung slowly, so as not to snuff the flame carried in his right hand. Still not restored from the egg fiasco, the chamber was, at least, in more order than above. Going over to the collapsed frame of his former bed, he dug around under the box spring until his hand fell across…

"There," he murmured, carefully sliding the wooden case into his lap. A half-smile ghosted across his lips as he brushed dust from the lacquered ash surface. Cyrillic characters were stamped over the cover. Kedrovy. Mid 1930s. A small hamlet that'd still shod horses off broken stone streets, where silver was still an acceptable, quiet currency, and cobblers customed their wares in hand-hewn cases, like the one resting across his thighs. Boots. Not for him, but for Drusilla. That had been the case's original contents. Leather, blackened and oiled with care in a small shop that had the misfortune of being just far enough down one of those broken alleyways that no-one had witnessed the arrival - and brutal commerce - of the handsome pair that stole inside, one grey afternoon.

He slid the top from its grooves. The smell of tanned hide and bootblack filled his nose, the scent still strong, despite the forever that had passed between then and now. He carefully set the lid aside before taking inventory of the clutter within. One hundred-plus years of life - and unlife - were packed within the old case. Memories. Good ones and bad ones, long-faded human dreams, cozied next to a demon's spoils. All his. 

All Spike. 

The folio was always on top. Brown leather, worn soft as felt by time, filled with thick sheaves of linen paper, whose every inch, every margin, was crammed with the neat, earnest hand of young William. He rarely read the entries, or glanced at the sketches, merely thumbing through the pages a few times a decade. Remembering. Unread or not, he needed to have it with him, the volume having never left his possession since taking leave of his family home. It was strange. This person - this _William_ - wasn't supposed to exist anymore. And still, even before the soul, the love - the crush even - William still held court over the temperate bits the demon had failed to quell.

Underneath the folio, a surprise: a very nice, very old, bottle of black rum. Definitely not his usual fare. He tried to recall where and when he'd acquired it, giving up when he realized it didn't matter a damn. The label provided him the only information he needed: 90 proof. It would do. He cracked the seal and took a long pull from the neck. Rich and sugary, it tingled on its way down to his gut. Instant warmth. The tang of fermented molasses stung his mouth, but he kept drinking until things started to feel pleasantly numb.

He rifled through the rest of the contents. Mostly smaller items, these mementos were things easily pocketed or secured, fragments of events, people and conquests that needed due representation before the advent of the keepable Kodak moment. A lock of Drusilla's hair. A few coins. That blasted skull ring he'd used to propose to Buffy with when they'd been spell-i-fied by Red. He put it on, turning his hand so the candlelight glinted off the tarnished silver finish. His lips found the bottle again and he took another deep swallow. It'd been easier, loving her with the majick's help. No fuss, no fury and no blame when it didn't work out, when the spell had been broken and the hate flowed freely again. Damned free will. It fucked everything up, all the time…

He pulled the bauble off and chucked it hard into the case, cringing as he heard something crack. After some careful sorting, he found what he'd damaged. A small picture frame, something he - or rather, William - had made. One of his first forays into the arts, at the age of… twelve? Thirteen? He picked it up gingerly, the smashed glass within shifting and pattering down on the souvenirs in his lap. He'd made this for mother. A birthday gift. Cloudy pieces of sea glass, the product of a summer's worth of scavenging at Brighton, pieced and set so carefully in sculptor's clay. She'd been so pleased, keeping it by her bedside, an image of father, or himself, inside. It held no picture now. For all his tokens and trinkets, he hadn't saved an image of his mother.

"And on that twisted note," he mumbled, returning the collection to the case. He fumbled a few items from his jacket pocket and added them to the trove. Three of Isobelle's business cards - the last still in his possession. The boarding pass from the flight she'd taken to Sunnydale. The silk scarf she'd stopped wearing, the one she'd used to hide her scar. Lastly, a tube of her moisturizer - _Correction, shea butter - _he thought, staring at the frou-frou label and toying with the cap. Jasmine and tuber rose. Looked expensive. Smelled divine. He said a silent 'thank you' for the benefits of hotel living: unlimited hot water, mountains of dry towels, and enough alone time that Isobelle didn't notice that he showered three times a day. A small daub of the thick cream in his palm, the shower jets on high… no substitute for her, but, it eased some of the ache.

No. That, he'd keep with him. He stuffed it back into his pocket, settled a bit more against the rough stone walls, and went back to the bottle.

"Slumming?"

"Christ!" he grumbled, alcohol sloshing as he jerked in surprise. "Well, if it isn't the Queen of George Street. You never did learn to knock, did you?" He blinked towards the ladder, watching, through rapidly blurring eyes, as Buffy minced down the rungs.

"Don't need to knock if nobody lives here, which, then begs the question… "  
  
" …why am I here," he finished.

"Not… not that I really _care_… " she said, fidgeting as she took in her surroundings. It seemed like a lifetime ago since she'd last been here… with him, at least. 

Those nights, over the summer, when she'd slip in during patrol, just to take a look, to see if… 

__

No. They didn't count.  
  
"No, you were just gonna ask for fun."

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, adopting a 'Don't mess with me' pose. Outfitted in tight jeans, white sweater and brushed denim coat, she was her typical fashion-plate self. She was dressed to slay.

After a moment of required glowering, she cracked a smile and sauntered over to where he sprawled.

"Seriously," she pressed, perching on the edge of the ruined bed. "Why are you here, instead of with… what's-her-name?"

He shrugged. "Can't spend every moment together."

"She finally get a brain cell and kick you out?" she asked lightly.

"No! I mean… no. Needed some air. Some time to myself… "

"… And, time for the drinkies," she supplied, watching as he drained another few ounces from the bottle. He shrugged again. She toed at the rubble with her boot, sweeping long arcs through the dust. "Um, by the way… you did good with Jacket Boy the other night. I mean, Xander, he said you… you were helpful."

He nodded. "Maybe I got a career in mugging then. Could come in handy."

"And with the brother," she added. "It was… I mean…we're… I… I'm… "

He snickered, shaking his head. "Can't even say it, can you?"

"Say what?"

Sip. Swallow. "Nothin'. And, why are you here, anyway? This a regular stop on your staking route?"

She shrugged. "I saw the door was open. Got curious. Thought this place was abandoned." She peered down at him from her perch on the mattress. "Isn't it?"

He canted her a half-nod from the floor. " 'tis. But, won't be for long. Been doin' some spiffy-ing. Thinkin' I might take the place back."

Buffy frowned. A slight edge crept into her voice. "Don't you have a place? Aren't you kept somewhere?"

Sip.

"Well?"

He muttered something she couldn't make out. "Slur louder, Spike."

"She's leaving," he repeated. "Heard her callin' airlines, so I buggered off."

"Had to happen, eventually. So, what wised her up? Did she get tired of bleaching bloodstains out of the china?" 

He shot her a look. "Dunno. Maybe it was somethin' you said to her th'other day. She was right pissed when she got back from meetin' you."

"Yeah, let's talk about that," Buffy pressed. "Miss 'Chip-on-her-shoulder-the-size-of-a-two-by-four' definitely wasn't in a listening mood that morning." She narrowed her eyes at the vampire below. "What exactly did you tell her about me?"

"You? As little as was needed."

"Or, about… "

"Us? When there was a sort-of us?" His mind staggered through the list of rights, wrongs and horrors that had been them.

"She knows about the soul," Buffy prompted. He nodded. "And, she knows the why of it too. That much was clear from our convo."

"She does. But, that's all she'll know. From me at least." He took another swig, _tsking _to himself when he noted the bottle was nearly empty. "You? Tell her… tell her whatever you want."

"Right," she snorted. "Where exactly should I begin that confab? Which degrading episode should I start with? How about the bruise-a-thons? Think that'd be a good place to start?"

Spike staggered to his feet and pitched the bottle across the room, sending an arc of shattered glass through the air. "Those bruises were equally shared, love. And if my whacked memory serves, I sported most of them."

"Save it Spike! You loved it. You always came back for more… "

"NO!" he bellowed. "I came back for _you_! I loved _you_! Not the fists and the claws and the concussions. You. An' obviously I still do, 'cause, here I am. Again. Dutiful servant, jumping to when you snap those dainty fingers… "

"God, this is pathetic!" she spat, frustration making her whole body quake. "You're with someone else and you have the gall to say you still… " She shook her head. "I'm done with this. Soul or not, you're still a… Forget it." She turned towards the ladder, Spike cutting her off before her boot hit the first rung.

"Why? Why 'forget it', and not _deal_?" he challenged. "Is it so hard to get that I'd still love you? You don't lose love, Buffy. I'll… I will always love you. Sad as that may sound to you, you could… " He gave a thin laugh, ducking his eyes from her hard glare. "You could snap those dainty fingers and… like I said. I'd jump. With a smile on my face." _And a stake in my heart._ He wrapped a hand around the ladder, taking some measure of comfort in the wood that splintered his palm. "God, Buffy. Part of me will always love you. Still you it sees. It craves. It wants."

"Wh… which part?"

Spike tilted his head in surprise, his eyes widening at the tremble in her voice. He risked a glance at her and saw tears shimmering in her green eyes. The want - the need he saw there made his stomach lurch. This couldn't be her. Not the Slayer. Not his…

He reached out and brushed one finger over the soft denim of her jacket. She didn't flinch as he drew a line from her shoulder to wrist. She was there, real as anything.

"Buffy?"

"Which part?" she repeated, taking a half-step closer to him. So close, he could feel the heat pouring off her body, smell the rich, spicy vanilla and gardenia scent that was her. "You got your soul… for me. But… how? Why did… "

"Buffy, don't," he cautioned, wanting to slip back, to keep their distance - and any temptations - at bay. "Not now. Not tonight."

"Why? Why not tonight?" she pressed, trying hard to keep the urgency out of her voice, to mask her own desperate need to know. She managed a wilted smile. "Not nutso enough to share? No… no cross to throw yourself on when you're done? You were always the one who wanted to talk about things, so - "

"What? Start with the gut-spilling?" He shook his head. "You don't really care. You don't want me, and you _don't want to know_ which part of me still wants you, so let it lie." He pushed off the ladder, swaying back on unsteady legs. _Damned drink…_

"Maybe you're right. Maybe, I don't want to know. Maybe I'm just tired of… " She gulped a breath, trying to focus. Gain control.

"Tired of what?"

He saw her jaw tighten. A cool edge hardened her voice.

"Of people dancing around an issue and being too chicken to speak the truth."

"Not to piss on the virtues of honesty, but sometimes not bein' free and loose with the truth is bein'… kind."

"Spare me."

He winced.

__

Spare me.

Tell me you love me.

Tell me you want me.

Demands. Always demands.

He kept his voice low. Even. He couldn't put a proper name to the half-dozen emotions that roiled inside him just then, so, in a small moment of alcohol-tempered clarity, he bottled the scream that bubbled in his throat and set his gaze on the girl who had made him what he was.

"Angel," he started, leaning against the rough stone wall for support, "- and by Angel I mean that souled, brooding, nancy-boy do-gooder - he loved you, completely, with that desperate, eager little soul of his. But Angelus, he was another matter." Spike slid down to the floor, crouching on his heels. "He hated you. Wanted to rip out your innards and nail them to the walls as art. The old man would rave for hours on how he was going to… "

"Enough with the history lesson," she ground out, the truth of his words hitting her hard.

"Right. On with it then. Must keep up with Buffy's needs." He levered off the wall and moved to within a pace of her. She wrinkled her nose at the sour-sweet smell of alcohol on his breath. "With us," he whispered, "well, for _me_, turns out the opposite was true. Seems as though the bit of me you hated the most was the part that… "

"Don't. Even. Say. It," she hissed.

"You asked, love."

Even in the dim candlelight he could see the colour drain from her golden skin, her cheek now hued a sickly grey, small beads of sweat dotting her upper lip.

"Quite the kick in the ass, eh?" he chuckled. "All that effort, and the bleedin' thing wasn't interested. Not that I didn't try, mind, to make it behave. Make it want you, too. But, what the demon forgave, _It_ wasn't quite ready to forget. And, sad to say, _It's_ a tad fucking stronger than that dead, evil thing you used to have so much fun with." 

He leaned in closer, his mouth hovering over hers. "So, as much as I - that is, that part of me - might want you… "

Buffy's eyes fluttered, her chin tilting ever-so-slightly upwards, lips so close to his…

"…there's more than your Slayer sensibilities - and your wicked right cross - that's keepin' it from happening."

She pulled back, blinking in surprise, anger rising inside as she watched him retreat to the damaged bed. _God, I almost…_she shivered, realizing how close she'd come to letting him touch her. Kiss her. _After everything, he can still make me…_

He'd returned to his seat on the stone floor, tucking the wooden box back in its hiding spot. Wedging a booted foot onto a cracked ladder rung, Buffy swung herself partway up to the exit. Pausing, she looked down at the vampire, slumped bonelessly among the fragments of his existence.

"Don't kid yourself, Spike," she told him. "There's more than your rusty soul keeping the possibility of us from ever happening again. It won't, because I say it won't, not because you suddenly got your guilt gene switched on. I won't let it happen. You can't hurt me anymore."

He cast his eyes up towards her, dragging the flat of his palm across them before meeting her gaze.

"That, love, was the point."

~+~

Isobelle woke with a start, hands scrabbling to pull sweaty, twisted sheets from her body, her sleep-heavy arms not cooperating with her need to get the hell out of bed.

Another night, another nightmare. Four so far, all dark and dire and terrifying… and not one that she could remember after her panicked awakenings. Even now, still numbed from slumber, the images were hazy, fading fast as consciousness reclaimed her. Cotton-mouthed, heart thudding against her ribs, she tried to pull them back, put order to those dreamscape horrors. She rubbed her eyes, clearing away sweat and - tears? Had she been crying in her sleep? - And tried to remember…

Kicking the linen to the floor, she padded to the bathroom, bare feet slapping the tile in her beeline for the sink. Cold water stung her skin as she splashed her face, her lips tinting blue as she sipped from her cupped palm. She stared hard at the pale face in the mirror, concentrating…

Blood. Lots of it. A vague impression of gushing wounds carved on white skin. And pain. 

So much pain. 

She didn't have to check his room to know she was alone. That first night, he'd heard her rocking in her sleep, quivering with a fear she couldn't articulate when he'd finally managed to wake her. He'd been different after that, finding reasons to go out at night, to leave her alone. That she needed space, some privacy. That she didn't need him hovering 24/7. That he needed to get the hell out of the room and just…

She jumped, hearing the room door rattle. Shrugging on her robe, she made her way to the lock, releasing it just as Spike had got his keycard in the slot.

"Shit, you're up," he slurred, stumbling across the threshold. " 's late, kitten…"

"It _is_ late," she said tightly, steadying him with one hand, trying to close the door with the other. "And you're drunk."

He sniggered, wrapping his arms around her waist, causing her to tilt off-balance. They both hit the door on their way to the floor, shutting it with a rattling slam.

"Not drunk," he countered, still holding her tightly as she struggled to right herself. "Was drunk after th'first bottle. Had me three altogether, and now I'm properly _pissed_!" Floundering in his grip, she pushed him back against the door, settling across from him, out of reach of his roving hands. Dirt stained his pants and the cuffs of his jacket, and sullied the pristine white of his jaw. His shirt had rucked up over his belly from their tussle on the carpet, and he toyed with the hem, sending her small, sly grins as he worked it over his abs.

"Either way, want to tell me why?"

He shrugged. "Somethin' to do."

"This how you usually spend an evening in Sunnydale? You never did this… "

"How were your calls? Didja make all your calls? Tell me, how'd those go?"

"Calls?"

He waved vaguely at the coffee table, to the pens and papers that littered the veneered top. "Calls." He squinted at her in the dimness, the gloom cut only by the light from the bathroom. "To airports. Flights and stuff. Those work out well for you?"

"Yeah," she replied cautiously. "How did you know… "

"So, when do you leave? Need help packin'?" He wobbled to his feet, only to fall back to the floor when she kicked a muddy boot from under him.

"OW!" he griped. "My arse. I think I broke it… "

"You didn't break your ass. And keep your voice down!"

"It. Hurts."

  
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "Does your head hurt too? Because I figure it's stuffed far enough up your… "

"You're leaving." It was a statement that time. No inflection, no lilt to make the words sound the least bit queried. 

She sighed. "Why do you think that?"

"Well, cheers for not denyin' it at least."

"I'm denying it now. I'm not going anywhere, Spike."

"I heard you. Calling. Talkin' times and shit… "

"You were eavesdropping?"

  
A shrug. "Can't help overhearin' if you talk loud… "

"If you're going to listen in on my phone calls," she admonished, moving to take a spot next to him against the door, "then make sure you listen to everything."

"Times, plane numbers, airlines…" he listed, ticking each item off on his fingers and waggling them before her.

"Postponing, not booking, you moron." She took his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze - one hard enough to make him flinch and look her way.

"I don't like this, Spike. I don't like that you hear something and assume the worst and take off without talking to me about it. That isn't us. At least, it _wasn't_ - not before this."

"Christ!" he hissed, slamming his head against the door. "I'm fucking _sick_ of talking! That's all we've been doin' for days, and it hasn't gotten us… Fuck it." 

This time she didn't stop him as he climbed to his feet, choosing instead to let him weave an unsteady course around the room, cringing as he came close to toppling table lamps, or kicking chairs as he roamed.

"We talk and talk," he intoned, "but for all of it, we never _say_ anything. So polite and correct and mindful… it's too much bloody work. I'm no thick git, 'belle, but it's too much… I can't keep up with the double- or triple-speak." Homing in on the settee, he gracelessly sprawled onto the cushions. "And, God, my head hurts."

Isobelle kept her station on the floor, her mind teasing out the substance of Spike's drunken rant, watching as he rested his head on the back of the small sofa. Every now and then he'd let loose a little moan and rub his eyes, a gesture that made her want to hug and smack him at once. She didn't doubt he was hurting, but whatever pain he was in was of his own doing. And, she was more than a bit irritated that he'd picked this late an hour for such a stunt. But, drunk or not, some of what he was saying had merit. Both had been treading on eggshells around the other, wanting to say and do more than ego and fragile feelings would allow. 

They both deserved more than this painful, polite consideration.

Gathering a wet cloth from the bathroom, she knelt behind the settee, resting her arms on the back near his head.

"Where does it hurt? Front or back?"

He waved a hand in the air. "All over."

She lay the compress on his forehead, then slid her fingers through his hair, feeling the back of his head for the lump she knew was forming under those bleached, gelled curls. A small sigh escaped his lips and he relaxed into her palm. "Feels good," he murmured, eyes lazing shut. His chest rose and fell with reflexive breaths, timed to the rhythm of her touch.

"Spike?"

"Mm."

"Not that I want to reward your behaviour by saying you were right a moment ago, but… "

"But what?" he droned, half-dozing from the alcohol and her attentions.

"For all our talking, we really haven't said what we - I mean, what _I_ feel, or what I'm really thinking… "

He stirred, clumsily hauling himself into a sitting position. The wet cloth scudded down his cheek and landed with a soppy thud in his lap. "What're you on about, love?"

She sucked in a breath. "Tomorrow morning, when you've sobered up, you can ask me whatever you want. And I promise to answer you as honestly as I can."

He blinked, clearing some of the alcoholic haze from his eyes. She could see him think, processing her offer, weighing the million questions that'd been left unasked, wanting to choose the most important. 

The ones that would mean the most.

"Truly?"

She nodded.

"Can I ask one now?"

"Spike," she cautioned, rising to her feet to open the door of his room. "In the morning. And sober," she added, as he made good show of glancing at her bedside clock. Fighting overstuffed cushions, fatigue - and the pints of Jack in his system - he made his way off to bed. He held his place within the threshold, folding a hand over the one she had gripping the doorknob.

"Just one," he pressed, leaning in close. She indulged the moment, drawing in the smell of him - all liquor and ripe earth, clouding over the softer scent of soap that dressed the skin of his neck. "And I'll go to bed like a good little vampire and not bother you 'til the sun shines."

Heat flushed her cheeks, her fingers fidgeting under the clasp of his palm. Smell. Touch. His voice in her ear, the nearness of his body - every sense she had took notice of him, responding to his presence in ways she wasn't yet at ease with, but still missed. Reminders of before - familiar, comforting - not yet right to indulge in, but wanted nonetheless.

"Alright. One," she acquiesced.

"Been a week, and a bit," he started, "since you found me. Brought me here. That first night didn't go so well. I got pushy. Kinda like now." A nervous grin twigged his mouth, softening into a wider smile when he saw her reciprocate. "An' bein' thick and irritating, I got you to say that you… that, um… that you didn't know if you could ever forgive me… or trust me… "

Suddenly, his alcohol-fogged brain decided this was not a good idea. He shouldn't ask, shouldn't expect. That he ought to have given her the rest of the night to craft her honesty, find words that wouldn't sound so trite or blunt, or so begging, as his were sounding now. But, he'd stepped out too far now to turn back, to slough it off for later hours. She stood there, listening, waiting for him to speak, patient eyes fixing on his. He tried to finish, to get his tongue around the thoughts in his head, cursing his lack of follow-through.

Watching him struggle to speak his mind, his fears - his heart - to her, finally cracked the last bar of reservation that crossed her own. She'd admit tomorrow - and prove later - what she'd already concluded in their first reunited moment. She loved him. No amount of logic, or infinitum recounting of past wrongs, could shake her of that conviction. Her life, her work - everything that made her who she was - found guidance, purpose, from knowledge, fact and common sense. Head over heart. Wanting him wasn't smart. It was foolish. Dangerous. He'd hurt her once; he could do it again. Trust someone who'd failed her so horribly? Or to forgive it? She'd be stupid to do so.

So, she'd be stupid.

Heart wins.

She ran the pad of her thumb over the smear of dirt on his jaw. She felt a shiver ripple through him, and tried not to smile.

"Ask your question."

"Are… are you stayin' now because you think… think that you can?"

"Forgive you? Trust you?"

A small nod in reply. Her hand left his jaw and curled around his neck, fingers teasing hairs from the nape as she guided his mouth to hers.

He almost missed her whispered 'yes', the word nearly buried by the kiss that sealed her declaration. Soft, warm lips pressed gently onto his, pattering them with, slow, open kisses. Aching familiarity caused his hands to grip her hips, run along her thighs, her arms, gliding over silk and skin to cup her face between his palms, as he kissed her back. So sweet, so perfect, as she sank deeper into him, letting his tongue dance at the entrance to her mouth, teasing it with the tip of her own. He felt her small fists clutching the sleeves of his jacket, keeping him near, showing him she meant it. She wanted it. 

Wanted him.

He moved his mouth from hers, planting tiny kisses and nips on her cheek, her jaw, working a path to her neck. He breathed in deeply, soaking in the scent of her. Of sandalwood. And roses. And him. His lips found their way over the scar. Her whole body spasmed as he placed a kiss over his mark, lapping the silvered skin with his tongue.

"That's cheating," she gasped, voice shaky. He rested his head on her shoulder, cradled by the curve of her neck. He could hear her heart thudding in her chest, feel it through her skin. One hand still rested on her cheek. She nuzzled the palm, waiting out the aftershocks of his attentions. They stood, twined, braced in the doorframe for a long while, as minds, bodies and souls reconnected.

She was the one to pull away first, giving him a small push over the threshold and into his own space.

"We're still… " he asked, gesturing between the two rooms.

"Yes. For now," she told him, trying not to let his disappointed look push her into going faster than she was able.

"I understand. No half-measures, yeah?" He nodded to himself. "Doin' things only partway - never works out right." 

She wished him goodnight, waiting until he'd shed his jacket and climbed onto the mattress before closing the door. It was nearly shut when his voice made her pause.

" 'belle?"

"Mm?" she replied, leaning onto the frame.

"Thanks, for letting me ask."

She smiled, easing the door shut until it clicked, and thanked herself for being able to answer him _yes_.

TBC… 


	6. Unreality

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Archive: If you like. Just tell me where.

Acknowledgements: Eternal thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me literate and allows me to indulge in some girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It is OC, so deal with it or bail now.

Timeline: Post 'Conversations With Dead People'

Email: spikeswillingslaveyahoo.ca

Author's Notes: Any dialogue you recognize isn't mine, but borrowed for 'plot reference'. Still about ankle-deep with the 'girly selfishness' ::notes with sadness that new warning sign has not been delivered:: and now testing the derivative waters.

* * *

The dust was moving.

Night winds - _cool and dry, or warm and wet?_ - she was _so_ not sure right now - blew the grey-grit mixture of dusted vamp and graveyard dirt into dancing swirls around her boots.

The stake - _was she still holding it? She must be… _- suddenly felt heavy in her slackening fist. The weight of it pulled her arm to her side, as she stood staring at the wasted pile at her feet.

Numbness crept through her muscles, turning the once fluid flesh into a mass of cold, twitching joints and limbs.

She stared. And she processed. Slide-show images of this night's encounters flashed through her mind, providing her with bits of clarity within her otherwise muddled brain.

Spike.

The crypt.

The almost-kiss.

Patrol.

Then Holden, with their heart-to-undead heart chat…

And then reality ceased to exist.

How do you know Spike?

What do you mean, how? He was that guy that, um - oh, what's the word?

Sired.

Yeah! He was the guy that sired me.

Too much. Images. Words. Flashing and crashing too fast through her consciousness, melting the incapacitating numbness, making it drip from her fingertips as the words hit home. Hit hard. Hit deep.

"No," she moaned, the soft plea lost to the dull clatter of the stake as it fell onto the diminishing pile of leavings at her feet, unburdening her now-shaking hand.

"No… not… ca… can't…"

Nonsense sounds, in denial of a nonsense claim.

Spike can't…

The tremors started to worsen. Tiny, pale hands were now clenched at her sides, driving the tremble upwards, away from slim fingers, the violent quivering settling onto narrow shoulders.

Panic now. Irrational and irrefutable stone-cold dread prickled already-stressed muscles and pestered the psyche to action - any action…

To do… _something_.

Dosomethingdosomethingdosomethingdosomethingdosomething…

* * *

She ran.

Booted feet, stumble-thudding over graveyard mounds, tore a ragged path through the mist as she searched the ever-lightening darkness for those familiar stone doors.

"Spike!" she called, her voice barely raising above the shrieking grind of marble-on-flagstone as she pushed her way past the doors and entered the crypt. No candles lit the interior. It was as cold and empty inside as it had been on those long summer nights when he'd been gone. She stood in the middle of the gloom, waiting. Listening.

"Spike?" she tried again, cringing as it echoed off the barren walls, the cold stone somehow amplifying the pleading tone of her call. She needed to see him. Needed him to _be_ there to deny the fledge's insane claim.

But there was nothing. No light above, nor sound of life below.

He was gone.

But, she knew where to look for him next.

* * *

Soft light filtered through the heavy brocade drapes of the hotel room, spilling a dull, multi-coloured glow over the unmade bed and its lone, restless occupant. It'd been not more than an hour since Isobelle had sent a rather drunk - and cheekily frustrated - Spike off to bed, but sleep had failed to return, leaving her to twist and toss under thin linen and dwell on the events of the night.

Being awake had some advantages, not the least of which was that it guaranteed she not slide, psyche deep, into another of the dread-and-pain-filled nightmares she'd been suffering these past few nights. Dark images, ones of blood and fear and cold oppression, had shaken her from the deepest of sleeps into fuzzy, panic-laden wakefulness. Unsure of what they meant or why they'd started, she'd soon come to hate curling into that bed, facing the worst the dream world had to offer, alone.

But this time, she had more to occupy her thoughts than the nightly ramblings of her overstressed mind. In a moment of frighteningly stupid sincerity, she'd agreed to sit down with Spike and honestly answer whatever he wanted to ask, about the muddled knot of angst that had become their once reasonably adult relationship. Ever cautious about stepping on the other's fragile feelings and expectations, their time together had been nothing but days upon days of careful, respectful double- and triple-speak. Words, layered upon sentiment, upon meaning, until - as Spike had pointed out - they'd spoken a great deal and yet had managed to say nothing at all.

And it was the anxiety of _that _conversation, more so than the chance of suffering another nightmare, that had kept her awake, as her mind wandered through the countless possible questions he might hit her with, once he awoke.

Which could be at any moment if whoever was pounding on the hotel room door didn't knock it off.

Kicking the mess of linens aside and pulling on a robe, she made her way across the dim, dawn-brightening room. Unbolting the locks, she pulled the door open, flinching at the fist that was poised in mid-thump, now left hanging, targetless, in the air. Buffy's grim-set face sent her no greeting as she pushed her way into the room.

"Where is he? Where's Spike?"

"Please, come right in," Isobelle said testily, letting the door swing closed with a too-loud _slam_.

"Sorry. I know it's early," Buffy replied, scanning her surroundings. 'Well lived-in' didn't quite do justice to the state of the room. Mugs rested atop the microwave near the mini-fridge. Laundry slips and room service receipts were piled semi-neatly on one corner of the dresser. Dusty smudges stained the carpet in front of the settee, just barely covered by the overloaded coffee table, the top of which was obscured by layers of magazines, a notebook and face cloth. "But I really need to talk to him."

Isobelle frowned, self-consciously starting to tidy the cluttered space. "He's asleep. I'll tell him you stopped by."

Buffy folded her arms across her chest, her green eyes moving from the empty, rumpled bed to Isobelle. "I might be blonde, but I'm not blind," she countered, nodding towards the queen-sized wreck.

The slow burn of embarrassment that crept across Isobelle's face fueled her rising irritation. "He has his own bed," she said tightly, stuffing the armful of detritus she'd collected into one of the empty dresser drawers. A fraction of a moment too late was when Buffy took note of the narrow door adjacent to the main entrance to the room, those five little words kick-starting a re-evaluation of the dark-haired stranger and her reasons for being in Sunnydale.

"I _really_ need to talk to him," Buffy repeated, her tone quiet, unchallenging. Unmoved by her persistence, Isobelle folded _her_ arms across her chest, in silent challenge to the unwelcome intrusion.

Softening her approach, Buffy tried a different tack. "I know, the first time we met, we didn't exactly start off on the right foot… I mean, first impressions can be misleading. And, well, the second time, too… that wasn't a bowl of sugar and cherries either. But… maybe, the third time's the charm?"

"It's not starting out to be," she was told plainly.

Buffy nodded. "I get that. I do. But I need… " She swallowed, trying to find the words to convince the other woman to hear her out.

"I need to talk to _somebody_ about this. And, maybe he isn't the one I should be bringing this to first." A deep, steadying breath was needed before what followed. "Maybe it should be you."

Isobelle stared at the petite blonde for a long moment, taking in her words. For the first time since they'd met, she detected none of the hostility, impatience or incredulity that had been the staple of their earlier encounters; with the rolling slump to her shoulders and purple stain - _was that a bruise?_ - on her cheek, Buffy looked equal measures exhausted and shaken.

Which was something she could relate to.

Each settled on opposite ends of the settee, Isobelle providing Buffy with a glass of water and an air of fragile patience.

"Okay," she started, barely waiting until Buffy had set her tumbler down on the now-tidied table. "What was so important that it couldn't wait until a more decent hour?"

Direct and to the point - something Buffy could appreciate.

"I ran into a vamp tonight during patrol. Quite the chatterbox. During the whole 'I'm gonna dust you up' part of the encounter, he… he said something… something that…"

The blonde shook her head. It was still hard to wrap her mind around. And, if _she_ was having trouble understanding…

"What did he say?"

"He said that Spike… that Spike was his Sire."

Isobelle blinked. "What?"

"Sire." A beat. "When a vampire turns the victim into a vampire too…"

"I _know_ what a _Sire_ is."

"Read a lot of Anne Rice, huh?" Buffy quipped reflexively, aching to break the thickening tension.

The attempt at humour didn't go over well. "No. Did a lot of research. I'm not some Anita Blake groupie, who's had wild imaginings about romance and vampires. This 'third time's the charm' thing is only going to work once you get that through your head…"

"Hey, you're not winning 'Miss Congeniality' either," Buffy defended. "This is me, _trying_ here. Let's find halfway, okay?"

"Alright," Isobelle replied. The import of the statement was finally sinking into her overtired brain. She bit back a sigh and rubbed her eyes. "Sired? I don't… it doesn't make any sense…"

"I know. I mean… hello, pain chip."

"Not the only reason, you know."

The words were spoken softly, but they hit Buffy hard.

"You're right. It isn't. Even if he could, I don't believe he would…"

"Why?" The settee springs creaked as Isobelle leaned in closer. She didn't want to miss a syllable of the blonde's response.

"No matter what you might think of me," she started, working hard to keep her gaze strong and steady on Isobelle, "I'm not out to hurt him." _Again_, was her own silent rejoinder. "And, as for the other, well, I'm all about understanding the difference that it makes." She reached for her glass and took a sip. "He's changed. I know… I _knew_ that. Felt it, from minute one. Didn't know how, or why. Right away, I mean. Took awhile before I figured it out. And, I _know_ this isn't possible…"

"But?"

Buffy shook her head. "If he didn't… then I need to know why some nothing fledge wanted me to believe he did."

"To cause trouble?" Isobelle suggested, still trying to fathom the accusation.

"Maybe. But, still brings us back to _why_…"

With a mechanical _thud_, the air conditioner kicked itself into action, its first semi-chilled blast of stale, recycled air whiffling the curtains, letting a stab of early morning sunlight flash across the room.

"Oh, God, it's late!" Buffy blurted, springing off the settee. "I have to get home to my sister." Halfway across the threshold before Isobelle could even stand, she paused, sending a thoughtful look the other woman's way. "Um, about that 'third time lucky' thing…"

"We did better this time. Thank you."

A nod. "I'll be back. Hopefully, not in a 'Terminator-y' way. But," she added, eyes passing over the door to Spike's small room, "I will get to the bottom of this. I promise you that."

A small _click_ signaled the closing of the door, and she was gone. Isobelle shivered, retreating deep into the cushions of the settee. Keeping her composure throughout this brief encounter with Buffy had exhausted her. Alone now, she shed her calm facade, feeling the icy thrill of panic skitter through every cell of her body. The girl's parting words gave her no comfort. Rightly or wrongly accused of the unthinkable - of the impossible - Buffy had managed to cast a shadow of doubt over Spike, chipping away at her already fragile trust in him.

Saddened by how easily her faith could be shaken, that a stranger could make her question her heart and judgment…

She shivered again, pulling her robe more tightly around her shoulders.

I will get to the bottom of this. I promise you that.

The threat of the truth had never been so frightening before.

* * *

Waking up warm is always something special.

As of late, Spike hasn't had the privilege of rousing under the easy comfort of wrinkle-softened sheets, body heavy with sleep and mired blissfully deep into feather-ticked mattresses and thick, down-filled pillows. Faded light dances over his still shuttered eyes, prodding him on to consciousness. He fights the wakening, liking this feeling - being warm, lazy and comfortable - wanting to draw out this rare treat, to savour every last second before having to face the cold light of morning and the reality of whatever is thrown at his feet during this spin about the poles.

He stretches, catlike, back arching and rolling under the buttery cotton and chenille bedding, limbs bowing askance of that pale, lean body as he now wriggles into a new, even more comfortable sprawl. A slight growl stirs in his throat and he wriggles again under the linens, an idle grin ghosting across his face.

Some things never change, he muses, his hand gracelessly fumbling under the covers to give his morning hard-on a rough squeeze. Another growl rumbles in his chest as he writhes in time to the sweet pleasure/pain of his demanding fist stripping over the oh-so-sensitive skin down below, the now-slickened palm gliding in steady rhythm to the panting groans now bubbling off his parted lips.

And he remembers now, how similar this is to other mornings, long since past, waking to this warm pleasure, mired deep in the coziness of gentle arms and clean sheets. If this were then, it wouldn't be his lonely hand working away under the covers. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, imagining the light touch of a smaller hand, slim fingers dancing over the fluttering muscles of his belly, working their way slowly lower, raking through those coarse curls and wrapping as far as possible around the thickness of his shaft.

It's then he gasps, shocked, as he actually feels the first timid strokes down his abs, a gentle finger rimming his navel before dipping down and trailing along his length. Feather-light kisses patter down on his shoulder, neck and chest, the warm, soft skin of a naked body pressing deep into his side. Those fingers now lace with his own, stroking along to the relentless tempo of base to tip, tip to base…

He tries to turn his head, wanting to capture those teasing lips with his own. The kiss from before flits through his mind. Honey-sweet and filled with promises of more, of better and best yet to come… and now she's here with him.

It's been a week since she's

found him, but today, she's taken him back.

The kisses falling on his skin become dainty nibbles and nips. He moans as her teeth scrape the skin of his neck, nuzzling and suckling a path to his ear, the tip of her tongue licking along the shell before sucking the lobe into her mouth.

So lost to the sea of sensations washing over his body, his orgasm takes him by surprise, white-light flashes of blissful agony tensing and twisting every muscle as he cries out, spilling cool, sticky jets over their twined fingers. Spent and quivering and deliciously sated, he now dares to crack open his eyes and look towards his girl.

"God, love, what you do to me… so full of surprises…"

She laughs. "So glad you liked."

He freezes in mid-turn, eyes flying open, confusion and dread souring in his gut.

It isn't blue eyes that meet his frantic gaze, nor is it dark curls brushing off his shoulder as he scrabbles into a sitting position. Green, feline eyes fix on his. A sweep of blonde splashes over the feather pillows as Buffy snuggles deeper into the thick softness of the bedding, a cheery smirk on her cupid-bow mouth.

"Spike, don't look so surprised. This is what you've wanted all along, isn't it?" Her foot kicks slightly under the covers, and she slowly starts toeing the linen down the length of her body. "And you can have it. All of it."

He blinks, then pulls his eyes away from the girl stretched out before him. This isn't his room. Isn't his bed - his narrow twin now a generous size, sitting in the middle of a finely appointed silk and brocade space. He feels heat on his naked back and turns in alarm. Soft sunlight filters through the white gauze curtains of enormous French doors. The bed, his body - the whole room - is awash in the fatal yellow glow. But, he isn't burning. He wafts a hand through the beam, marveling at the lack of damage.

"Wonderful, isn't it?"

Her voice brings him back and he dares to look in her direction. The wrinkled sheets now pool around her waist, her bare, golden skin shimmering in the morning light.

"I… I don't… Buffy, I don't understand this…"

"Shh," she soothes, climbing to her knees and inching her way towards him. "You don't have to understand… you just have to accept it. This can be yours… _I_ can be yours…"

He flinches as her arms encircle his neck. It makes her giggle and press even closer. Her breasts brush against his chest and he can feel the hard tips of her nipples dragging across his skin as she breathes.

"You did it for me," she whispers, "Got _It_ for me. _It's_ so beautiful, Spike… you have no idea…"

Her lips hover over his, the ghost of a kiss passing between them, making him shudder.

"So beautiful, and perfect, and all for me… all mine…"

"Buffy, please, tell me how… why…"

A real kiss this time, her mouth landing across his, hungry and demanding. He sinks into it, melting from the heat of her body and mouth, her arms holding him tight, squeezing a gasp of pleasure from his lungs.

"I thank you for that, Spike," she mutters into his mouth. "God, I can _love_ you for that…"

"L… love me?"

She nods and kisses him again.

"It's what you deserve…"

He buries his nose into the silky gold of her hair, smelling the familiar scents of vanilla and gardenia as he breathes her in. She's all around him, making him dizzy, making him want…

"Are you real?" he asks. "Is this… is this real?"

"It can be. _I_ can be… be all you want. All you need." Another kiss, as she rocks in his lap. "But, you know what you need to do first."

The light pouring through the French doors starts to weaken, the room growing dimmer and duskier as the gloom bleeds across the opulent space. Buffy slides away from him, wrapping herself in a white silk robe. He sees a black one draped over a nearby chair. It feels cold and slick as it slithers on over his skin. The fine doors are now completely dark. He looks at them, then back to Buffy, who simply nods.

The carved gold handles are like ice in his hands as he turns the knobs. He's back in the hotel room, back within its dull confines…

But back with Isobelle.

She's sitting on the settee, looking much as he'd left her, loosely dressed in a terrycloth robe, idling time with a magazine. Seeing him, she sets it aside; the smile she gives him is placid and sweet as she rises to meet him.

Wrapping his arms around her is a rote response, one she reciprocates with gentle enthusiasm, her head nestling under his chin, her small hands roving the silk-covered expanse of his back.

Closing his eyes, he savours the contact, willing that the comfort of their embrace be enough to drown out the cold confusion prickling his brain. Both can't be here… nor be real… but he feels it all… senses it all…

"Aw, that's sweet."

Buffy's voice snaps him back into the moment. She's standing behind Isobelle, her arms folded across her chest, a knowing grin on her face.

"No, really, it is. You have a big streak of sap in you. She brings it out. I like that." She sidles closer until she's hovering over the brunette's shoulder. "But it isn't going to get you what you want."

She circles ever closer, until, on tiptoes, she can whisper into his ear.

"And that will always be _me_, won't it?"

The knife appears as if by magic from the billowy folds of her robe. She cants it in the dim light of the room, the dull gleaming of the blade entrancing him.

"You know what needs to be done," she prods. "I could do it for you, but it would mean so much more if you did it yourself… " A kiss brushes over the shell of his ear. "And did it for _me_…"

But, it is already done.

He feels the weight of the knife in his hand and looks down, to Isobelle, crumpled at his feet. There's blood everywhere: dripping off the blade, running in rivulets down his hand… his arm… staining the black silk of his wrap, making it stick to his chest and belly… the fat, hot crimson drops falling on the already-saturated carpet…

"I knew I could count on you…"

* * *

Consciousness didn't come quickly for Spike, the last threads of the dream being slow to snap their hold on his mind. Wakefulness finally came with a shuddery gasp, his lungs heaving like bellows, breaths coming fast and harsh, as if by breathing hard enough, they could purge the horror of those nightmare images from his psyche.

JesusFuckMeChrist…I killed her…

No. He didn't. It was only a dream - a shit-kicking-scare-the-soul out of him dream, but a dream nonetheless: it wasn't real. None of it had happened…

Well, some_ of it had_, he noted with a grimace: bedclothes stuck to his bare skin, wet and tacky from - _Goddammit_ - he'd soiled the sheets like a sodding 12 year-old who'd had his first wet dream. Groaning, he peeled the stained bedding off his body and kicked it to the floor.

It wasn't until he'd swung his legs over and tried to stand that the dizziness hit him: as the fear and revulsion he'd felt from the nightmare started to fade, the effects of his drinking binge struck in full force. His stomach rolled and he fell back onto the mattress, fighting a killer wave of nausea.

While he waited for the room to stop spinning, he put what was left of his brain to work recalling his talk with Isobelle. She'd made him a brave promise before sending him off to bed; for both of them, it would take a great deal of courage to plainly ask the questions that their wounded prides (and bruised hearts) needed to have answered.

He knew what he wanted to ask. He just hoped that when the time came to spit it out, he'd have the balls to carry through with it; he didn't know what he would do if she didn't…

It was then he realised that - despite the drum-like thrumming in his head - he hadn't heard so much as a peep or shuffle from the other room. More usual than not, he'd hear her rambling around the small space, but at the moment it seemed deadly quiet.

Gingerly, he got back up on his feet and pulled on a robe, making his way to the door with only the slightest stagger to his step.

Isobelle wasn't there. The bed was made and the room had been tidied to a presentable state. A note lay on the now-clean coffee table, marked with a flourished _S_.

Hey there,

Ran out for supplies. Won't be long. Hope your head doesn't hurt too badly.

I

PS - I'm ready if you are.

He folded the slip of paper and dropped it back onto the table.

Ready or not, it had to happen.

"Bring it on, love…"

* * *

The Other sighed in utter contentment, pleased with the efforts of the previous night. The Red Witch in the library, the shrill brat at home… and Spike, the little masterwork of the piece. Not bad for a few hours of cheery torment…

The seeds of doubt - and fear - had been successfully sown on many fronts, and the dream - well, dream-play had worked so well in the past, with that other pathetic specimen of souled demon. Not that the last go-around with the bitty Slayer and her pet vamp had gone the way it should have… but the thing about evil - about The First - was that persistence eventually paid off.

Another silent sigh, this time in anticipation of the fun to come.

TBC…


	7. Revelation

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Archive: If you like. Just tell me where.

Acknowledgements: Eternal thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me literate and allows me to indulge in some girly selfishness when it comes to Spike. Thanks as well to the lovely Nimue Tucker, for her invaluable input on character voices (and for cheering on the 'girly selfishness'!).

Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It is OC, so deal with it or bail now. J

Timeline: Post 'Conversations With Dead People'

Email: spikeswillingslaveyahoo.ca

A/N: I'd like to thank everyone who has taken the time to give me feedback - you've all been so kind with your words and encouragement. I know I'm lousy at responding to individual comments, but please know that I deeply appreciate the time you've all taken to send me your thoughts.

This chapter has been a long time coming: partly due to RL and writer's block, and partly to my attempts to actually get a plot in place. There **is** a plot on the way - I promise!

* * *

"So, let me get this straight..."

Xander Harris holstered his hammer and turned his attention away from the half-repaired window in the Summers' living room. Even now, with most of the debris cleared away, the destruction that had been wrought on the space the night before was still evident. Anya made busy work at the mantel, dusting what hadn't been pulverized during Dawn's otherworldly attack, tossing fragments of the remainders into a large garbage bag. Dawn idly swept the thick layer of broken mementos and dust into one large heap, with Buffy standing by with a dustpan to scoop the remnants away. The only person to look up from their task and give Xander their attention was Willow. She closed the browser on her computer, momentarily putting a halt to her research on the source of Dawn's attack and Buffy's unthinkable revelation regarding Spike.

"This girl just shows up one day…"

Willow scrunched her brow. "Woman. I mean, 'girl' is a little… condescending…"

"Okay," he acceded, sending Willow an indulgent look. "_Woman_ shows up out of nowhere, looking for the Evil Undead…"

"Actually," Dawn interjected, "now that Spike has his soul, it's kinda technically not true. The evil part, I mean, not the undead part, 'cuz until we find out if he's been nibbling on people again, the 'evil' bit is in question. But, yeah - still a vampire, so, still 'undead'."

"…and," he continued, ignoring Dawn's comments, "giving you a hard time over the whole basement deal. I mean, who the hell does she think she is?"

Buffy shrugged, wiping her dirty hands on her jeans. "Someone who _cares_, apparently."

"And she knows he's a vampire, all big with the blood-drinking and the _grr_?"

Buffy nodded. "She's been briefed. Besides, it'd be kinda hard for him to keep that a secret for too long."

Willow flipped through a stack of printouts, organizing the hard copies of her research efforts. "What did she say when you told her about the possibility he's feeding again?"

"She didn't believe it. I can't blame her for that. I mean, Will, I'm not sure _I_ believe it. With the chip and all…"

"Nothing you say will matter."

All eyes turned to Anya. She dropped a cracked vase into the garbage bag, waving idly at the plume of dust that billowed out on its impact.

"You could stack the drained and mangled corpses waist-high in front of her, as proof that William the Bloody is un-alive and well and sipping his way through Sunnydale, and she wouldn't care one bit. Sue will roll her eyes and explain it all away, and then think the less of you for trying to convince her that her cuddly, souled vampire is a killer."

"Wait. Sue?" Xander looked confused. "Who's Sue? I thought her name was…"

Dawn waved a dismissive hand in the air. "We know her name. Anya's just calling her what she _is_."

He blinked, still lost. "Which is?"

Anya sighed. "An outsider. A perfectly nice - probably too nice - little wench, here to worm her way into our tightly knit - if demonically dysfunctional - group, and proceed to solve all our problems with a wink and a smile. And maybe baking. These people always have some disgustingly wonderful talent that they show off at the drop of a hat. _'Oh, the world is ending! But try my fudge before you go.' _It's very annoying."

Xander slumped against the half-built window frame. "Still not following."

Dawn balanced a shard of wood on her palm. "That's 'cuz you don't spend any time online."

"The _point_ is," Anya continued, irritation evident in her voice, "she won't be on your side; she'll be on Spike's side. She isn't here to help prove he's killing again, or to save the world with bubble gum and two pieces of string and, if she does pitch in for your next almost-un-win-able cause, it will be to service _him_, and _his_ needs." She gave the now-full trash bag a kick, smiling with satisfaction at the_ crunch _the contents made under her foot. "Oh, and have sex with him. Wild, overly passionate sex that, in reality, no vampire can ever have with a human without some damage being done…"

Buffy glared. "Alright, Anya, enough. This isn't getting us anywhere."

"Sure it is," Dawn smirked. "I mean, we just learned that someone here spends waaay too much time reading _Harry Potter_ fanfic…"

Anya pouted. "Doesn't make it not true."

Xander gathered his coat and headed for the door. "And on that note, I'm going to the hardware store. I still have a few dollars left in my wallet, and this - " he gestured around the still-dilapidated space, "will take a lot more spackle to be presentable again." He nudged Dawn on his way by. "You wanna tag along? Look at the paint chips?"

"And decide which colour my room _won't_ be painted this year?" She shrugged. "Sure. Tagging it is."

Willow waited until the door had closed behind the pair before approaching Buffy with her research. "Kinda glad Dawnie left. We need to talk about a few things."

Buffy settled onto the one relatively clean spot of the sofa. "What did you find out? Did you put a name to the… thing… that took my mother's form last night?"

Willow shook her head. "Not so much with that. Sorry. I still have some searches to do on shape-shifting entities and de-corporealized manifestants."

"De-corpor-whatis?"

Willow took a seat on the arm of the sofa. "Kind of like pesky, mischief-causing changelings. They take the form of a departed loved one and make with the destruction and horror. They feed off the fear of their victims."

"Nasty little creatures," Anya commented. "They manage to generate a good scare in someone, and they breed like rabbits. Which are also nasty little creatures, so it's a fitting analogy."

"Anyway," Willow continued, "I'm still working on that one."

Buffy nibbled her lip and tried not to notice the thick sheaf of papers in Willow's hand. "And, the other?" she asked.

Willow cleared off a spot on the re-righted coffee table. "Three missing persons reports over the past five days. There would have been four, but Holden Webster was - well - found."

Buffy stared as Willow laid out the profiles: three, grainy black-and-white photos of smiling women peered up at her from the scarred oak tabletop.

"They range in age from 18 years to 23. All single, all last seen at public places. Two at a club downtown, one at a movie theatre."

"And what does this have to do with Spike possibly killing again?"

Willow shrugged again. "Nothing, as of now. But it's a place to start."

Anya slid one of the reports off the table. "His type alright. Does Sue ever let him out of her sight?"

"Anya, stop." Buffy got to her feet and pulled the report from the other woman's hand. "Her name isn't - "

"That's actually a good question, Buffy," Willow interjected. "I mean, if she can alibi him, then he's in the clear."

Buffy gathered up the remaining reports. "I'll ask. I know - I mean, he goes out. I know it. She knows it. She might not be able to cover for him."

"You don't think she'll lie for him?"

"No, Anya, I really don't." Buffy was noticeably exasperated. Willow retrieved her research and retreated to the dining room, unwilling to be caught in the middle of the tension.

"What is with you, anyway?" Buffy asked. "Why are you being so…"

"So what? Accurate?" She shrugged. "Must be leftover Vengeance Demon mojo. Back in the day - which, strangely enough, was only last week - I could sense a bitter, scorned woman two dimensions away. So, being in the same room with you? Trust me: not as tricky."

"I am not bitter! Or scorned or jealous or… or… whatever else sucks the Vengeancy-types close."

"Sure. We'll go with that for now. But tell me this: why are you defending her? I mean, she's fornicating with your so-called ex. Bitter or not, I'd've thought you'd revel in a bit of…"

"Petty bitching? Anya, I don't have the time. Something is messing with us big time here, and last night, it brought the fight into _my_ house, and attacked _my_ sister. I don't have time - "

"For jealousy?"

Buffy folded her arms across her chest. "For the last time, I am _not_ jealous. I'm… I'm nothing, except tired and pissed off, so keep your sniping to yourself, and be _helpful_."

"Or what, you'll run me through the chest with a sword? Oh, wait, you've done that already…"

"Anya please…"

"Alright. Helpful it is. I'll leave you with this tidbit to ponder, as I haul the remains of your broken goods to the curb." She leaned in, her expression softening to one of almost-compassion. "Sue might be on his side. She might be giving him lots of sex and support and telling him how wonderful he is, even if he just ate a basket of kittens, but remember this…" Buffy started slightly as Anya placed a warm hand on her shoulder. "One kind word from you… one crumb of hope… if you ever decided you wanted him back, you could have him."

Buffy shook. "Why would you say that to me? Tell me… even _think_ that I'd want…"

"Doesn't matter if you ever do or not. I'm just reminding you who has the ultimate power here. And that would be you. I still have the scar to prove it."

* * *

From the moment he'd gotten up, to the one when he'd heard Isobelle's keycard slide through the electronic lock of their hotel room door, Spike had spent one of his unlife's longest hours trying to figure out what exactly he wanted to say when they sat down to talk. It should have been easy enough to do: she'd given him free reign to ask anything of her and, in return, she'd promised him plain and honest answers. Leaning against the headboard, amid the sheets of her unmade bed, he'd filled nearly three sheets of hotel stationary, trying to order his thoughts, to separate the meaningful from the facile and needy questions that had so quickly sprung to mind when she'd made her offer. But right now, watching as she came through the door, hands filled with shopping bags, those notes were forgotten, crumpled in his fist, as a dizzying swell of déjà vu flooded him. She looked just like she had that first night he'd spent in her home: tired and slightly rumpled, but with his needs as her priority.

And, in spite of it, a smile crept across her face, a true blush of reserved happiness that tweaked the corners of her mouth and made her fatigue-darkened eyes gleam.

"You're up." Department store satchels thudded onto the carpet, a small, white paper sack the only item now in her hand. She canted it towards him. "Hungry?"

He shook his head and regretted it instantly, the simple motion causing his hangover headache to rebound.

"Hurting?"

He stayed still this time. "Not so bad now. The sledgehammers beatin' the inside of my skull are down to a dull racket. And I only see one of you standin' there, so things are looking good all the way 'round."

She stored the bag in the mini-fridge. "Later, then, so I can impress you with my new status as a potable blood connoisseur."

"Big words." He pulled his legs up a touch, a wordless invitation for her to join him on the mattress. If he hadn't been watching her so closely, he'd have missed the flicker of hesitation, the split-second's pause between her closing the fridge door and crossing the room to take her seat on the edge of the bed.

"Well," she said, fussing idly with the wrinkled sheets, "six months ago I had to choose between cow and pig, and today, some guy tosses lamb into the mix. And turkey, but that just sounded disgusting."

He wanted to laugh, share in the absurdity of what she'd said, but all he could manage was a faded smile. "Turkey was disgusting, but the rest sounded dandy to you? What did you wind up choosing?"

Another pause. She tried her best to match his half-hearted grin, but couldn't quite manage. Being this close to him, knowing what was to come, with Buffy's words from that morning still sounding in her ears, made all of this that much harder. She couldn't reconcile what she'd been told with what she was seeing before her. Wearing a wrinkled black T-shirt and faded jeans, his hair still a bed-headed mess of blond spikes and curls, he looked harmless, nothing like the killer that Buffy had been told he'd slipped back into being. His bare toes fidgeted amongst the unmade sheets as he waited for her to speak. She stilled one set with her hand, her fingers tracing the outline of his ankle. "You really want to know, or are you stalling for time?"

"70/30, stalling," he quipped, again trying for a genuine smile. The brief attempt at casual coolness melted away quickly, spurred by the crackling of the papers he held in his twitching fist. "But not because I don't want to… you know. I do. I… We. We should do this. I just… I want to get this right."

"We _will_ get it right," she assured. "As long as we're honest, it can't go wrong."

"Misconception the first," he chided.

She tapped the crinkled sheets in his hand. "Looks like you put a lot of thought into what you wanted to ask."

He looked at his list, sighed, then stuffed the papers under the covers. "I'm not usually one who's big on plans. Planning shit never really worked for me. I'm more of a 'fools rush in' type. But this…" he ran a hand over the hidden list, "this could get away from me. Ask the wrong thing, at the wrong time… it's like reading those 'Choose Your Own Adventures' books. What you say, what you do." He swallowed. "The choices you make. They all lead you down one path and one path only, and then you're stuck with whatever you get." His eyes met hers, raw with determination, his gaze so intense that she was close to looking away. But she didn't flinch. She sat in silence, waiting for him to continue.

"So I gave it some proper thought. Wanted to avoid re-hashin' the same old stuff we've already talked to death."

"Like what?"

"Why you came. What you feel - if anythin' - for me. How sorry I was - I _am_ - about… all of it."

"We can talk about anything you want, Spike." She shifted a bit closer. His arms had come to rest on the tops of his knees, and as she slid a comforting hand up his denimed calf, her fingertips brushed along the palm of one of his hands.

"I know. An' we will. I got it figured. Mapped out."

"So, where do we start?"

He took a steadying breath, which, for the first time, seemed strange - yet endearing - to Isobelle.

"I know why you're here. Why you came. Been over that and I understand. You did it for me. Because I asked and, knowing you the way I think I do, helpin' is just your way."

"Spike…"

She was starting to feel uncomfortable. The last thing she wanted was for this to deteriorate into another useless examination of her supposed virtues.

"But now," he interrupted, tucking his bended knees even tighter to his chest. "I want to know why you _stayed_."

* * *

By the look that Isobelle now wore on her face, Spike knew he'd either managed to suss out the million-dollar question, or that he was about to get the reaming out of his unlife. The expression of gentle patience she had been sending his way had given way to one of surprise, her lips rounding into an _O_ of mild shock, before fading into blankness. He could feel her retreat into herself as she - hopefully - gave his question serious thought.

After a few long moments of stilted silence, he spoke.

"That one knock you for a loop, love? You look a little lost in it all."

"That's because I am." The urge to get off the bed and pace was strong, but she knew he'd take any such action as a sign of rejection. She did her best to stay put and come up with the most honest answer she could. "Somehow I thought this would be… easier. In an 'I know what to say to that' sense, I mean."

His eyes clouded a bit, his defenses climbing a bit higher. "Just be honest. That's an answer. Say what you feel."

She reached over to take one of his hands; instead of accepting her gesture, he laced his fingers together and bracketed them over his flexed knees. She let her hand fall to her side and tried to find words to do justice to what she was feeling.

"I guess I'm still here because…"

IstillloveyouIstillwantyouIstillcareaboutyouIforgiveyouyoustupididiotman…

"Because?" he prodded. "You take pauses like that and I'm gonna start to think you're fluffin' your answers."

"Because," she started again, "I didn't think it would be this hard to say goodbye."

She knew the moment she'd said it that it sounded wrong, and the look that flooded Spike's face confirmed it. His eyes darkened, all hints of hope driven out with her words. The already-pale knuckles of his hands whitened even more as he further tightened his grip on his legs. His whole body seemed to tense, then settle into the unnatural stillness of someone trying their damnedest not to shake. Then, with extreme care, he let his hands fall open, unfolded his legs and slipped off the bed. Isobelle reached out to pull him back down, but he easily avoided her grasp.

Spike felt numb. After last night - after the kiss - he'd managed to convince himself there was the smallest chance he might be able to salvage some part of whatever he and Isobelle had shared over the summer. He'd taken the fact that she'd come for him, stayed with him these last few days, as a sign that, just maybe, she felt more for him than pity. Than obligation. He truly thought he'd had it, the perfect question - the one that would give her the opportunity to admit whether or not she still had any affection for him. That all she needed was the chance to say it.

Why did you stay?

Because I still love you.

Mustering what dignity he could, he said, "Right then. Well, that's something I can help with, at least. Leavin's a specialty of mine. An' I'm all for makin' things easier for you."

Feeling that things were rapidly skidding out of control, she made another effort to sit him back down. Managing to grab onto the hem of his T-shirt, she tugged him towards her, succeeding in making him settle next to her on the bed.

"Another specialty of yours is not listening. Or, only hearing what you want to hear."

"Your answer doesn't need much decoding, Pet," he countered. "For all the reassurances last night that you weren't planning on skippin' out, I know now it's only a matter of time."

She bit back a frustrated sigh and tried to keep her cool. "Of course it's only a matter of time, Spike. I can't stay here forever. I have what passes for a life elsewhere and at some point, I have to return to it."

He didn't reply. Casting his eyes down to the ground, he sat, silently, waiting to see if she would continue.

She tried a different approach. "I didn't come here for purely selfless reasons, Spike. I mean, that phone call scared the hell out of me, and I wanted to find you, make sure you were okay. But part of me wanted the chance to make my own break from… whatever it was we had. I wanted to indulge in my right, as the discarded party, to scream you stupid and show you how much better off I was without you in my life."

"Then why bother helpin' me? Gotta figure seein' me the way you did gave you some satisfaction."

She shook her head. That he would even think she'd find some measure of pleasure in his suffering made her heart ache.

"Knowing you were in pain would never make me happy."

"You didn't hate me that much?"

"What? No, Spike. I didn't hate you at all."

She reached out and took his hand in hers. Gratified that he didn't pull away, she ignored the fact that he didn't reciprocate the soft grip she had on his hand.

"Not that I didn't want to," she continued. "It would've made things a lot simpler…"

"And you had every right to."

"You're right. I did. I had a lot of anger - and some hate. But do you want to know what it was I hated?" She dropped his hand and got to her feet, giving in to the urge to pace. "I hated that you left me. I hated that I missed you and wanted you back, even after…"

She paused. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to admit to myself that, despite everything that had happened, I still wanted you with me? Coming here was supposed to be my opportunity to let it all go, and the last thing… the _last_ thing I wanted was to realize that I was still in love with you."

She cringed slightly. _Dammit-to-hell, I really did say it out loud._

The stunned look on Spike's face would've been cause to laugh had she not been suddenly overwhelmed with the most chilling panic. Very slowly, he rose from the bed, taking one step, then another, towards her. She mirrored him, back-pedaling with each of his advancing moves.

Spike watched her careful retreat, his mind fixated on her last words.

Still in love with you.

Still in love.

With you.

Love.

You.

He had to have imagined it. Surely, someone who had plans to soon leave him wouldn't confess such a thing. He couldn't have heard her correctly.

In the softest tone he could muster, he spoke.

"Isobelle, dear, would you kindly repeat what you just said?"

She shook her head. "No."

He blinked. Dulcet, it seemed, wouldn't get him far. "No?"

She twitched, her panic cresting at hearing the edge that had crept into his voice.

"That's right. No." She pointed a wavering finger in his direction. "And… and sit back down! I'm not finished yet."

He complied, the bedsprings squeaking in protest as he re-took his seat.

She loves me.

He let that confession settle inside, the warmth of it dissolving away some of his earlier fears.

She paced for a few moments, hands wringing in her frustrated distress, as she worked up the nerve to continue talking.

"Alright. Okay, I guess I will repeat it." He leaned forward slightly, suppressing a delighted chuckle at seeing her blush in response.

"Yes. I think… well, more than think… I do. I still love you. At first, when I realized it, I didn't understand why. By all reason under the sun, I should've stopped the moment you abandoned me. And until your call, I really thought I had." She leaned against the back of the settee, hands bracing the silk-encased backing. "I told myself that, if I came, it would be to make sure you were safe, find closure - however lame that sounds - and go."

"That sounds very… practical," he commented, disappointed with how calculated her plan had been.

"Shush. Don't interrupt."

He quieted and waited for her to continue.

She considered his words. "But you're right. It was practical. Practical was all I had left. I couldn't trust my emotions. And after I got here, and found you… God, I didn't expect to feel anything remotely like…"

She swallowed, trying to cap the anxiety welling inside. "It was confusing. I'd done what I'd set out to do - find you, make sure you were safe. When it came to reconciling whatever was unfinished between us… I… I couldn't. I didn't want to. I should have been ready to go, to finally leave it behind me and to start over…

"It took a while - and a lot of thinking - for me to finally figure it out. Why I couldn't go." She had to be careful with the next part. Reciting it in her mind, it sounded horrible. But, she'd promised him honesty. No one said honesty was pretty.

"I'd come to realize that my decision to leave - to say goodbye when the time came - had more to do with my ego than with what I was feeling."

Her words were like a physical slap and he couldn't suppress the flinch that came from hearing them. Whatever giddy satisfaction he'd gotten from hearing her say she still loved him had vanished. Once again, the 'power of his charm' had left someone he cared about feeling ashamed. Disgusted with themselves. Stifling the overwhelming urge to bolt, to remove himself from her sight, he bowed his head, gripped the mattress, and waited for the rest of it to come crashing down.

Her heart ached to see her words affect him so. She quietly approached the side of the bed, and lightly ran her palm over his cheek. He leaned into her touch, soaking up her comfort for as long as she'd give it.

"I'm not done yet."

"I don't know if I can take any more honesty today."

Craving the contact, she braced his legs between her own, and settled into his lap. "I'm sure you can," she replied, resting her forehead on his. Getting nothing but silence in response, she pressed on.

"Pride can be a hateful thing. I knew that if I gave in to my feelings, let you back in, and you hurt me again, it would be my fault. I don't trust easily. But with you, it came quick, it came fast, and I put my heart and my faith into believing it, and when you left, it killed my trust in you…" "Stop, please." He put his hands on her thighs and tried to push her off his lap, but she held on tightly to his shoulders. He could've easily removed her with more force, but he didn't want to hurt her. "I've changed my mind. Let's go back to the 'walking on eggshells' arrangement…"

"But," she continued, ignoring his plea, "I can't live my life denying what I want - whom I love - because of my pride, or my fear of getting hurt again. It'd be perfectly reasonable to get up tomorrow and say goodbye. I'd go home, live my quiet life," she slid in closer, until she could lace her hands behind his back, "and be utterly lonely. A wise person once said that, denying love for the sake of pride - for dignity - meant enduring a cold and lonely bed, and an empty life. I don't want that. I don't deserve it. And neither do you." She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I'm tired of my heart fighting my head. I don't care how wrong or unwise it is. I love you Spike. I love you and I want to trust you again. I think I can. And that is the long and painful - yet completely honest, as promised - answer as to why I stayed."

After a long moment of silence, Spike sighed. His hands made a slow, soothing journey from her thighs to her back, where he finally reciprocated her hug. He tucked his head under her chin until his cheek was nestled snugly against her chest. He listened to her heartbeat, savoured the heat that melted into his body from hers, and once again focused on the words that mattered the most.

I love you.

"Isobelle?"

"Yes?"

"D'you think that next time, when I ask you a question, you could keep your answer to somethin' short and simple, like, _'I love you, Spike'_, or_ 'Because I'm pissed, Spike'_, or even _'Because I said so Spike, now shut up and do it'_? 'Cause honest to God, 'belle, I don't think I could take another discussion like that anytime soon."

She smiled into that unruly nest of blond curls. "I promised you honesty Spike, not brevity." She gave him a quick kiss. "You not happy with the way our experiment in total honesty worked out?"

He shook his head, leaning back so that he could look her in the eyes. "Not at all. But, it begs the next question on the list."

"Which is?"

"Where do we go from here?"


	8. Decision

14

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Archive: If you like. Just tell me where.

Acknowledgements: Eternal thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me literate and allows me to indulge in some girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

Theme: BtVS AU S7. Sequel to What's Good for the Soul. SpikeCentric. It is OC, so deal with it or bail now.

Timeline: Post 'Conversations With Dead People'; soon to be more AU.

Rating: R (usually)

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has sent me feedback! Those kind words are much appreciated. It seems to take longer and longer to get these chapters out, due to RL and other inconveniences, and I am grateful for the patience of those who still find themselves interested in the story. There might not be another chapter until the New Year, but I am presently trying to work out an actual plot (amazing, huh?) that will hopefully make writing go a bit more expeditiously.

Thanks again for reading, and Season's Greetings!

* * *

_Where do we go from here?_

The answer to that turned out to be 'not very far'.

Isobelle rolled her shoulders against the pile of pillows stuffed between her back and the headboard, trying to get comfortable. Small threads of tension ran down her spine; her muscles stiff, from being in the same position for too long a time. What she really wanted to do was lie down, stretch herself across the mattress until the pain faded away.

But, she couldn't quite do that when more than half the bed space was taken up with a lazy vampire.

Sprawled on his belly, head resting on top of folded arms at the foot of the bed, Spike lay, mesmerized by the action on the television.

She smiled to herself. Slowly, in the wake of their conversation, they'd started to relax with one another. It had been a relief - for both of them - to finally put into words, the feelings and expectations that had gone, unexamined, for far too long. Polite caution gave way to casualness. The eternally unspoken '_should I, could I, may I,_'reverted to the ever understood '_it's alright_', with word, thought and deed.

So, despite the ache in her back, she did little more than squirm against the thin pillows, unwilling to do anything that would break the peace and contentment of the moment.

There would be time enough for that later, when she had to tell him about Buffy's morning visit.

She squinted at the TV screen. Some tele-marathon was on, and while Spike was engrossed, she was more than a bit bored. And lost, regarding the plot.

"Spike? Tell me again why we're watching this?"

He cast a glance at her over his shoulder, warmth and amazement evident in his eyes.

"You're joking right? Isobelle, this is _the_ single greatest examination of life, of love, of joy an' misery…"

"Yeah, okay. I got it…"

"You 'got it'? Love, Shakespeare would've _killed_ to write of such passions, such relationships…"

"_Okay_," she repeated, giving his leg a nudge. "I hear you."

With a smirk, he returned his attention to the TV. A few moments passed in silence, Isobelle doing her best to become involved with what was unfolding on the screen. Eventually, she sighed, nudging him again.

"Spike?"

"Hm?"

"Who's that again?"

"Pacey."

"Ah."

Eventually the closing credits rolled. Spike found the remote and clicked off the TV. Curling onto his side, he sent her an apologetic look.

"Didn't care for it, did you?"

"What? No, it was… it was…" Affecting seriousness, she finally said, "They were all very attractive."

He laughed. "C'mere."

Grateful to at least be able to stretch the knots out of her back, Isobelle was more than happy to comply. She took her spot beside him, close enough that her socked feet brushed against his still bare ones.

"Not the way you wanted to spend the afternoon?" he asked, fingering the remote. He looked up at her through thick, black lashes, his smile still in place, making his eyes shine.

She arched her back, sighing in relief as her spine _popped_ back into alignment. "I think after the morning we had, we deserved a little mindless down time. It was nice." She relieved him of the remote, giving him her hand instead. Their fingers intermingled, his skin pleasantly cool against hers. "_This_ is nice," she amended. "I've missed it."

"Me too," he murmured, tracing the pattern on the comforter with their entwined fingers. "Missed all of it."

She grinned. "Especially the free cable, right?"

He brought her hand to his mouth, lips brushing lightly over her knuckles. "Most definitely," he agreed sagely. She could feel his smile against her skin. "But this is higher up on the list."

Her eyes drifted closed in silent assent of his touch. Small kisses dappled the back of her hand, moving in a slow path to her wrist. With one simple twist of his hand, her palm fell open beneath his lips, earning a low sigh from Isobelle.

"Tell me when to stop, when I've gone too far…"

He moved her hand down to his hip before shifting his own to the small of her back. Her fingers grasped at the denim belt loops on his jeans as his mouth found hers with a hesitant kiss. The simplicity of it made her ache. He was being so careful…

Leaning in, she kissed him back. "I love that you can be such a sap," she gently teased, hoping he'd relax more. "And it's okay." Giving his belt loop a tug, she urged him closer, until their thighs touched and she could comfortably drape her calf over his leg. Reassured, he smiled and resumed his exploration of her mouth, his pace still slow, still soft, but imbued with more passion, more confidence. It was comforting. Familiar. As he grew bolder, seasoning his kisses with tiny nips and strokes of his tongue, she let herself slide into that warm familiarity, let herself reconnect to the wants and feelings that had been ignored for so long.

She eased over onto her back, bringing him with her. It felt so good: the weight of his body on hers, the growing confidence of his kisses… she waited for alarm bells to ring, for common sense to raise its voice and remind her this might be -_ was _- too much, too soon, but at that moment, she really didn't care. Her hands traveled up his arms and shoulders, her fingers skirting the un-gelled hair at the nape of his neck. He sighed as she carded through the unruly waves, working her slim fingers around the curls, grasping tiny fistfuls in eager response to his own mouth and hands. He nuzzled her neck while moving a hand to the hem of her shirt. Tugging it free of her jeans, he gave the soft skin of her belly a stroke of his palm. She shivered at the feel of his hand on her bare skin, her fingers twitching in response to the delightful sensation, her body…

"OW!"

Spike reared back suddenly, lurching into an unsteady seated position on the edge of the bed, carefully rubbing the back of his head, where he had hit it the night before. "Dammit, that hurt."

Kneeling beside him, she winced in sympathy. "Sorry. Didn't know it was still bothering you. You want me to get some ice?"

"Only if you're gonna put it in a glass with some bourbon. Otherwise… no, I'm fine. It's healing, but it stings a bit. It's going away now."

"Good."

Silence stretched between them, growing more strained with each passing second. With the moment rapidly fading, Isobelle realized, with much chagrin, how close she'd come to…

She stopped that thought in its tracks. There was nothing to be shy about, nothing to regret. She had to remember that this was something she wanted. As much as Buffy had seeded doubts about Spike - and even about why he was with her - her feelings were real. And from the way he responded, she had a good inclination that his were sincere as well.

_Uh-oh._

She'd nearly forgotten.

_Buffy._

"Well," Spike said, his voice seeming quite loud after the extended silence, "I think that definitely put us a few paces past 'square one'."

She smiled. "Well, it's not quite a dot on the horizon yet, but yeah, we're well beyond it now."

"Far enough for me to wonder… or to ask…"

His jaw tightened in frustration. "Feelin' like an idiot for even bringin' it up…"

She took his hand into hers for reassurance. "You know you can ask me anything." Seeing him like this bothered her. She knew, from the way he was acting that, whatever it was he wanted to discuss, he had the expectation that she wouldn't be receptive. And her constant reminders that he could be free with his thoughts and requests were probably not helping him feel any more secure about it.

He sighed, tightening his grip on her hand. "I wanted to know where I was sleeping tonight."

His question didn't surprise her. If anything, she was relieved he'd broached the subject. Wary of wanting too much too fast, she realized that whether he shared her bed, slept on the settee, or returned to the small room in the corner, ultimately had nothing to do with the mending of their relationship. And, at the risk of sounding needy herself, she wanted him with her.

But, she would let the decision rest with Spike.

She returned the squeeze of his hand. "You can sleep wherever you want. I told you earlier, I'm doing my best to learn to trust you again. To do that, I can't be making all the choices about what happens with us - if there really _is_ an 'us', that is."

He didn't reply, and seemed to be giving her words some thought. _A lot_ of thought as, once again, silence filled the room. She reminded herself that that was a good thing; that any snap decisions, made in the heat of the moment - especially considering the one that had just transpired - wouldn't be wise ones. Not that it wouldn't have been good to hear him immediately say that he wanted to be with her.

The all-encompassing quiet was starting to make her fidget, her free hand migrating to the wrinkled comforter, picking away at the tiny bits of lint that dotted the faded cotton. She was so engrossed in her distraction that she jumped when he finally did speak.

"Thank you. I… that is, for letting me…" He sighed, shaking his head with an amused grin, looking - relieved. "Thanks."

Dropping her hand, he rose from the bed and went over to the mini-fridge, examining their small cache of supplies. "It's getting nigh on suppertime. I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. And from the looks of this, unless you can make a meal out of a $4.00 bag of pretzels… where did you put the carry-out menus?"

"I think they're on the coffee table."

He was right. It _was_ getting late; she didn't need to look at the curtained window to know the brocade would already be dulled by the nearly set sun. Time was running short. Buffy would make her presence felt soon, which meant that, for Isobelle, it was now or never…

Spike sorted through the pile of shiny, wrinkled inserts. "Chinese… Chinese… pizza… hm. Didn't know this place had a Greek restaurant…" He waved the selections at her. "What'll it be?"

"I'm not that hungry yet. I'll decide later." She shifted uncomfortably on the mattress, drawing her knees up under her chin as she watched him retrieve a container of blood from the fridge. "Spike, there's something we need to discuss… something I have to tell you…"

He stopped in mid-pour. "If you're going to confess to being a blanket-stealer, I already know that, and I'm taking that into consideration when making my decision."

"I'm serious."

The plastic jar was set on top of the fridge with a dull _thud_. Setting the half-filled mug into the microwave, he programmed the timer. "Serious 'bout what?"

"Buffy."

He sent her a quick glance, then trained his eyes on the blinking numerals of the microwave. "What about her?"

"She came by this morning. Very upset. Angry, actually."

"That's nothin' new."

She could feel the tension rising in the room, could see the stiffness in Spike's back, how the muscles of his jaw twitched as he tried to control whatever emotions were running through him. But this had to be done. She'd rather him hear the story from her.

Swallowing, she pressed on. "She wanted to talk to you, but I wouldn't let her wake you up…"

The microwave _beeped_. He popped open the door, allowing the iron-rich smell of heated blood to thread its way through the room, but he made no move to retrieve his meal. "Talk about what?"

"Why don't you come back over here and…"

The microwave door closed with a none-too-gentle slam. She jumped, wide eyes fixed on Spike as he slowly turned to face her. Grim lines etched his brow.

"Talk. About. What?"

Hugging her knees to her chest, she took a breath, and started.

"It was about something that happened last night…"

* * *

The First stirred, shaken out of its reverie, in the dim corner of the hotel room, sparked to interest upon hearing Buffy's name. Mistakenly thinking it would be good fun to listen to this pathetic pair whine and angst over their sad little entanglement, the reality of watching them simper and pet one another had been a crashing bore.

But now that the dark girl had mentioned the Slayer, things were definitely bound to get more exciting…

* * *

It was the docks this time.

Another nameless girl runs for her life, thin shoes thudding in staccato panic on the sea-worn boards of the darkened port. Three figures in black, flowing robes keep a cruel pace at her heels. They can easily overtake their prey - end the pursuit right then and there - but they want her worn down: by the chase, by the fear, by the unshakable truth that she will soon die. So they continue the hunt, their scarred, unseeing eyes unmoved by the terror in hers, flashed at them as she wastes precious seconds looking over her shoulders, long black hair whipping in the wind. Her fine Asian features belie the fear she feels. Only her eyes give her away.

This one doesn't even have the sense to fight and when she finally stumbles over the detritus of the docks, landing in a twisted heap amongst slimy coils of thick hemp rope, she does nothing but cower and pant as they crowd around her. Only one Bringer unsheathes his knife. He lets her see it, taunts her with it, lets the dirty yellow moonlight glint off the blade, before driving it through her chest. She buckles at the impact, her mouth twitching around the silent scream forever lost in her throat.

One more down…

* * *

Buffy woke with a start, her choked cry bringing Willow into the living room in a rush. Kneeling next to the sofa, she sent her friend a sympathetic look.

"Another nightmare?"

Palms pressed hard into tired eyes, Buffy tried to rid her mind of the last watery images of the dream. "Every time I go to sleep, I see another girl die. And there's more out there, Will. I don't want to close my eyes anymore, don't want to see…" She pushed herself up to the edge of the sofa, shaking her head. "I just… I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Willow sat next to her. "And Giles hasn't got _anything _on what these dreams might be about?"

"Giles hasn't mastered the skill of returning my phone calls, so that's a big 'No' on the info front." Off Willow's look, she sighed. "Yeah, I know, he's 'Big Council Meetings Guy' now. But this is important. You'd think it would get at least one 'Gracious, Buffy, I'm flummoxed' from him, instead of the big silence."

"Maybe we should try and work it out ourselves. Pretend I'm Giles. Describe the dream to me."

"Will, we've been over it before…"

Grabbing a pencil and scrap of paper from the remnants of the coffee table, Willow persisted. "Details please."

Details were the last thing Buffy wanted to focus on. Between the nightmares, the horrific events of last night, and the disturbing possibility that Spike might be killing again, she was feeling more than stressed. But she knew Willow would not be deterred.

"Three guys. Tall. Long, dark robes. Pale. No eyes. _Really_ big knife…"

"What does it look like?"

Buffy thought. "Blade was kinda curved. And, there might have been some writing on it. Or the handle. It's all kind of a blur…"

"Anything else?"

"Another dead girl."

Willow's pencil stilled. "Oh."

"Yeah. Nothing new to add."

"Speak for yourself."

Both girls looked towards the front door. Xander helped Anya out of her coat and tossed it, along with his, over the stairway banister. Buffy practically bolted off the sofa, reaching the pair before they could make it into the living room.

"What did you find out?"

Anxious green eyes locked onto Xander. He shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny, trying to ignore the small spark of - hope? desperation? - he saw reflected in them.

"Nothing good, Buff. We went to The Bronze. A couple other places. Most of the people we talked to remembered seeing Spike there, on and off, for the past few weeks."

"So… so what? We already knew that. I mean, we knew he went out… that he _goes_ out. That doesn't prove…"

He interrupted her. "He'd arrive alone, but never left that way. Door guy at one place said every night he showed, someone different would be with him when he left. And before you start thinking mistaken identity - we're talking Spike here. He doesn't exactly blend."

"You're not kidding."

Picking her way through what was left of the destruction, Dawn emerged from the general direction of the still-intact kitchen. "He'd stand out at a Billy Idol concert. And that would really mean a lot more to me if I knew who Billy Idol was…"

Buffy crossed her arms over her chest. "Were you out? You didn't tell me you were going out."

Mimicking her sister's posture, Dawn sighed. "Hard to tell you anything when you're sleeping on the sofa. And chill - Willow knew I was going over to Janice's."

"For real?"

"Yes, for real! And, actually, as part of this stupid Spike thing." Shedding her jacket, she moved past Buffy and went towards the sofa, sitting down with a crunchy _thud_ on the cushions.

"See, Janice's sister's boyfriend's best friend's cousin works the concession stand at the movie theatre, where one of the missing girls went…uh… missing. So, I showed her a picture of Spike and she recognized him right away. Said he called her 'Love' and tipped her a dollar for putting extra fake butter goo on his popcorn."

Xander shook his head. "That ties it Buff. Two for two. Three all, if you count your dust pile from last night."

Inwardly, Buffy winced. Xander had barely managed to keep the cold, self-satisfied edge out of his voice, but what she'd heard of it cut her to the quick, his silent, months-repressed _I told you so_'s now creeping into his words. He didn't have to say another thing to issue his challenge: what would she do next?

Clearing a space on the coffee table, she took a seat across from Dawn. "The popcorn girl, she's sure it was Spike?"

Dawn made a face. "What part of 'recognized him from a picture' didn't quite do it for you?" Exasperated at the doubt in her sister's expression, she pulled a creased photo from her jeans pocket. "She picked him out in less than a second. Said it was him for sure - except without all the lumps and purple marks."

It was a picture from her last birthday party. Spike and Tara, playing cards, with Clem not so subtly looking over Tara's shoulder to see her hand. No one had bothered to ask him about the bruises on his face, or his still nearly-swollen shut eye. Not even Tara, who, that night, Buffy had caught sending more than one sadly curious look in his direction.

She stared at the photo. The others were silent, waiting for instructions. But how could she know what was the right thing to do? The evidence told one story. The chip in Spike's head supported another explanation - that the evidence was wrong.

Which to believe?

Which did she want to believe?

_What do I want?_

Anya's voice broke the silence.

"Not to press the point, but if we're going to do something, we should do it soon. The sun is down, and if Spike really is being bloody on a regular basis again, he's got a ready-made victim in Sue. So, do we wait for him to conveniently kill the outsider, or is it weapons time?"

Buffy's fist curled tightly around the photo.

It would always be this way. Her duty, coming before her conscience - before her wants. She'd wavered once before, and others had paid the price: the benefit of the doubt was a luxury she - and countless others - couldn't afford right now.

Her weapons chest was only a few steps away, partially hidden by the remains of a broken chair. Xander had sworn he could fix it. A little glue, a few dowels - it would be good as new. Lifting the carved top, she rummaged inside until she found what she sought. Pulling a lacquered stake from the trunk, she knew what she needed to do.


End file.
